


Welcome to the Broom Closet

by incapricious



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-15
Updated: 2007-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incapricious/pseuds/incapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry thinks he knows how his life will go: Become an Auror. Marry Ginny. Have a family. But then he sees an advertisement in the paper that no one else can see, and his life is turned upside-down. The Broom Closet: you can be anyone you want while you're there, but you won't remember it in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to the Broom Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Eros Affair prompt, "I promise to remember your name afterwards." Thank you to waterbird for the beta-read, and to wook77 and yodels for the encouragement and advice.

-:-:-:-

The advertisement sat innocently on the lower left corner of page six of _The Daily Prophet_, written in blocky text on a plain white background.

"IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU ARE QUEER."

"What the hell?" said Harry. "Look at this advert!"

He and Ron were sitting at a small round table in the Aurors' lounge. Lessons were over for the day, but they were waiting until after five o'clock to go home, when the crowds at the Apparition points and Floos had dispersed. It didn't really matter if they were here or there, anyway. After nearly two years of gruelling training, this room, with its ugly paisley-printed chairs and plain wooden tables, felt as much like home as their flat.

Ron leaned over to look where Harry was pointing and frowned. "Half-price cauldrons at the Cauldron Castle? What's wrong with that?"

Harry turned towards Ron, words of indignation dying on his tongue, and then looked back at the paper.

"IF YOUR FRIEND CAN'T READ THIS, THEN HE IS NOT QUEER. BUT YOU CAN. SO YOU ARE."

"Oh, well it's just, uh," stammered Harry, "that's a really good price. We should tell, um … ." Names of former classmates spun through his head. Who worked with potions? No one. For the love of Merlin, why had no one chosen to be a potions maker?

"… Auror Doyle?" Ron was frowning at Harry now.

Hot patches bloomed on Harry's cheeks. Doyle was their potions instructor. Just that morning he had taught them how to brew a Sleeping Draught using ingredients that could be found in any Muggle grocery.

"Right! Auror Doyle. I'll bet he could always use … more cauldrons," said Harry weakly. The advertisement had changed again.

"DON'T BELIEVE US? HOW DOES THIS MAKE YOU FEEL?"

Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the text faded and … holy fuck, was that an erect cock? It was huge and hard, and then all of a sudden there was a man's face there, and he was running his tongue along the cock and then he took it into his mouth with one deep swallow and now, it wasn't just Harry's neck hair that was standing up.

The man began to move up and down the length of the cock, faster and faster. Then, just as it was starting to get really good, the image disappeared, replaced by text in the same blocky font.

"SEE? WE TOLD YOU SO. COME TO THE BROOM CLOSET AND COME."

Harry knew that Ron was talking to him, but he couldn't hear him over the roaring in his ears.

-:-:-:-

For the next week, Harry refused to even look at the newspaper for fear of further uncomfortable personal revelations, which, by the way, were blatantly untrue. He was very careful not to think about the brief scene he had been shown, even though it seemed to be burned into the back of his eyelids.

Eventually, Ron commented on his changed reading habits, asking him one afternoon if _The Prophet_ had offended him in some way. Harry had learned that by the time Ron noticed something, it had long been obvious to everyone else. So the next day at lunch, he picked up the paper and began to read, vowing to avoid looking at any advertisements written in plain blocky text.

This time, however, they had used an elegant script against a subdued grey background, right in the middle of an article about the new seeker for the Wimborne Wasps.

"Congratulations! You are bent. Not ready to admit it to the world? Neither are we. Come to the Broom Closet. Guaranteed 100% private and discreet. Your secret is safe with us."

Below that was listed a London address. Harry scowled. He wasn't gay. He liked women. Well, some women. For example, he liked Ginny. They would probably even get back together some day. She was in Holland now -- her quest to see the world seemed to have gotten stuck there -- and he didn't think about her often, but sometimes he did. He thought about her face and her smooth, slim legs. He sometimes thought about men as well, sure, but there always seemed to be something about the men he noticed ... not that they looked like women, but they reminded him of the women he fancied in ways he couldn't define. Something about those men just … confused his brain. It didn't mean he wasn't straight.

Of course, not being straight was fine. When Dean and Seamus had made their surprising announcement -- surprising to Harry, at least -- the world had not ended for them. Rather, they seemed happier than they had ever been. But that was who they were, and--

"Hey," said Ron, "Seamus and Dean's dinner party is next weekend, right?"

Harry nearly dropped the paper. Had he been talking out loud?

"I didn't say anything about Seamus and Dean."

"Um. No, mate, I did. Just now," said Ron. "Are you feeling all right? Maybe that Stunner scrambled your brains a bit."

The day before, Harry had been hit by a strong Stunning spell during training when he had failed to block their instructor's attack. He had closed his eyes for just a second and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, looking up at the concerned faces of his fellow trainees.

"I'm fine. Sorry, I was just reading this article about, uh, the Wimborne Wasps."

"Oh yeah? Is it about their new Seeker? I heard she's brilliant. Ugh, the Cannons don't stand a chance against them. And we were doing so well this year, too. We nearly won that last match!"

Harry grunted noncommittally as Ron continued to describe, loudly and in detail, how his favourite Quidditch team had nearly defeated the second-worst team in the league. It had been the highlight of Ron's life. Harry had heard it all before. Repeatedly. So had everyone else, apparently: the lounge burst into sound as a dozen voices called out variations of, "Oi, shut up, Ron!" An assortment of baked goods rained onto their table, with an errant croissant hitting Harry in the head.

Throughout the commotion, the advertisement sat silent and unmoving, yet Harry couldn't take his eyes off of it. Something had to be done.

-:-:-:-

Harry stood on the pavement, eyeing the supposed location of the Broom Closet warily. Even though it was a moonless night, and even though the closest streetlight was burnt out, and even though he was wearing his invisibility cloak, he was still afraid of being seen. The advertisement had claimed this place was completely private, but how could it be with an entrance right on the street? Even if it was hidden from … from people who couldn't see the advertisement, people who _could_ see it could still see him.

"This is ridiculous," muttered Harry. He should just go home. He'd been standing here an hour and hadn't seen a single person enter or leave. This had been a bad idea.

The door swung open and then closed again, silently. Still not a soul could be seen on the street. Harry stared. Another invisible gay man? Except, _he_ wasn't gay. So, that would make it one potentially invisible gay man and one definitely invisible definitely not gay but possibly confused man.

Or … maybe someone was inviting him in.

He took a deep breath and walked towards the door. He gripped the doorknob, feeling the cool brass beneath his palm. The door was windowless, and its paint was peeling, but Harry could discern an ornate pattern beneath layers of street grime and years of wear. He studied the design intently.

"I'm not stalling," he whispered to himself, "I'm ... admiring the beauty of this ordinary object."

He'd come too far to turn back now. With his next breath, he opened the door and walked into the Broom Closet.

-:-:-:-

It wasn't at all what he had expected.

He'd pictured a dimly lit space, furnished with sleek black leather couches and a bar along the far wall, accented with touches of polished chrome and backlit to dramatically display a vast array of the finest domestic and imported spirits. In his imagination, handsome, well-dressed men reclined on the couches, sat at the bar, or stood in evenly spaced groups of three to five, speaking in low tones that filled the room with a pleasant murmur.

Harry squinted and fought the urge to sneeze. He'd got the "dimly lit" part correct at least.

The grey man at the desk didn't look up. His hair and clothing were covered in a layer of dust, as was the rest of the room. The high ceiling was barely visible through the gloom. An unlit crystal chandelier swung faintly, cobwebs hanging from it like jungle vines.

"First time here?" the man asked, snatching up a bedraggled quill and licking his thumb before paging through the enormous leather-bound ledger in front of him. Harry could see rows and rows of scrawling text sectioned neatly into columns. The man dipped the quill into what must have been a bottle of ink and raised his head. His chortling laugh was cut short by a volley of sneezes. "Invisible, eh?" he said once he had blown his nose on a grimy-looking handkerchief. "That won't be necessary here. We are a _private_ establishment." His voice was creaky and raspy, no doubt from years of breathing equal parts dust and air.

"Look," said Harry, "I think there's been some sort of mistake. I keep getting these adverts in my newspaper, and they're … they're just wrong. I'm not _gay_."

"That won't be a problem. Are you bisexual, then? Pansexual? Omnisexual? Ambisexual?"

"Ambi-- what? I ... I don't know what that is."

The man scribbled something down in his ledger. "I see," he said. "But you did see an advertisement for the Broom Closet."

"Yes, but--"

"And you have, in the past or present, been sexually attracted to another man." His quill was poised over the second column on the page.

The casual way in which the man said those words, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, dissipated Harry's feelings of indignation. It was true. A strange sensation fluttered through his chest.

"Yes," said Harry. His heart was pounding but his voice was steady.

The man made a quick checkmark in his book and looked up, his eyes focused on a spot a foot to Harry's left. "Very good. Everything seems to be in order. That will be twelve galleons for membership, and tonight's visit is on the house."

After Harry had got over his surprise at the sum and handed over a stack of coins, the man waved his wand -- it was the only thing in the room that looked clean -- and a panel in the wall slid open, revealing a dark hallway beyond.

Harry took a few tentative steps towards the opening and then stopped, clutching his cloak, which was still around him. "What happens now?" he asked, his heart beating even faster. He could feel beads of cold sweat forming on his forehead.

"Oh, Herbert will explain everything," said the man, not looking up from his book. "In you go, young man, you're holding up the queue." He flicked his wand and Harry felt himself sliding forwards as though a giant hand was pushing him and the floor had been turned to ice.

"Queue? What-- hey wait, I don't know if I--" Harry began, but before he could finish his sentence, he was through the doorway and the panel had closed behind him, cutting off all light.

-:-:-:-

"Hello?" Harry called, stretching his arms out in front of him. He shuffled forward slowly, hoping there were no steps or holes or dangerous creatures ahead in the darkness. Although he had to admit that was unlikely: it would be bad business practice.

"This is curious. Why can't I see you?"

The voice had come from not a foot in front of him. Harry stumbled backward, drawing his wand. "Who's there?"

"You might find that the _Lumos_ spell works quite nicely in this sort of situation."

Harry lit his wand and stuck it out of his cloak, lighting up the narrow corridor.

A translucent man floated in front of him. He looked young -- maybe twenty-three, not much older than Harry -- and was dressed in nothing but a pair of breeches that were partially unlaced, a pair of stockings, and a single shoe. His hair was dark and flowed loosely around his face. Harry couldn't help but notice that he was quite handsome. Or, would have been had he been alive. Was it weird to find a ghost attractive?

Harry pulled off his cloak and stuffed it into his back pocket.

"Ah, there you are. How do you do?" said the ghost with a small bow and a large grin. "My name is Herbert. I shall be your escort to the Broom Closet."

"Um. Hi," said Harry. "I'm, uh, my name is James." He ran a hand through his hair. "My escort? Is it very far?"

Herbert laughed. He had nice teeth, perfectly even and straight. "No, it's only ten yards down this corridor. But you'd never find it without me."

"Oh, okay. Lead on then, Herbert."

"… Would you perhaps like to learn about the magic of this place first?"

"Right! Magic! Yes. Yes, I would," said Harry, hoping the blush creeping over his face wasn't visible in the wand-light. Something about Herbert had put him so at ease he'd forgotten his earlier worries.

"Excellent. Some do not, but I find them to be fools. We were founded in 1793, as a refuge for wizards who … enjoyed the company of other men, as they say. Consequences of discovery were severe in those days."

"Severe?"

Herbert grimaced. "The lucky ones ended up in St Mungo's. The unlucky ones …"

"I see," said Harry quickly, wishing he hadn't asked. Herbert looked as if he was about to cry, and the entire corridor felt colder.

"Yes, well this place has been a haven ever since. Our methods are slightly unorthodox, but they are very effective." Herbert smiled and Harry relaxed again.

"Unorthodox?"

"Yes, but effective. Our establishment removes all risk of discovery. Not only is our very existence a Secret, revealed only to those who have need of it, but also no man may approach our doorstep while another man is near it."

Harry remembered what the man at the desk had said about holding up the queue, and felt vaguely guilty for having stood outside on the street for an hour.

"Also," continued Herbert, "when you go into the meeting room through the door just ahead, you pass through a magical boundary. And when you go out again, all higher memories acquired since you went in are left behind."

"Wait. What do you mean, 'higher' memories?" The idea of letting some unknown magic into his mind unsettled Harry. It more than unsettled him -- it revolted him. Maybe this wasn't someplace he should be.

"Don't fret, James. We don't read your mind," said Herbert, seeming to read Harry's mind. "The magic is … well, why don't I give an example of how it works? Let us say that you go into the Closet and meet a dashing young man who catches your fancy. You speak together for a few minutes and soon find yourself backed against the wall with your trousers around your ankles and your cock in his mouth."

Harry inhaled sharply and stared into Herbert's silvery dark eyes, unable to look away.

"You then find that this young man is quite skilled," continued Herbert, pausing to wiggle the point of his translucent tongue. "You proceed to have the most explosively fantastic orgasm of your entire life. Afterward, you bring the man to an orgasm of his own using your hand."

Harry's pants were feeling a bit tight.

"Then you leave," said Herbert, his gaze wandering down Harry's body and back up again. "And once you walk out the door, you will remember the rush of that fantastic climax, the hot wetness of the man's mouth, the smell of his desire and the feel of his hair in your hands. You will remember how you felt when he moaned and spilled himself into your palm. But you will not remember his face or any other face you saw. You will not remember his name or any other name you heard, nor any words either of you spoke. Emotion. Touch. Taste. Smell. That is all you will take with you when you leave."

Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot, searching for words. Any words, really. They were all evading him at the moment. "Um. Oh," he said. "Er."

"Would you like to proceed?" asked Herbert, tipping his head slightly to one side. When Harry nodded, still mute, Herbert grinned broadly. "Excellent. Follow me." He spun and floated down the corridor.

Harry watched Herbert recede for a few seconds before hurrying after him, vowing that next time -- if there was a next time -- he would not ask Herbert anything about the past; there was a jagged wound under Herbert's left shoulder blade.

-:-:-:-

Harry stood near the entrance to what Herbert had called "the meeting room," trying not to laugh. Here, finally, he had found his sleek black couches and dramatically backlit bar. The floating glass lanterns had not been in his mental image, but otherwise the room looked much like he had expected. The one major difference was that it was vastly more crowded. Apparently there were a lot of closeted wizards in London.

No one had seemed to notice him when he walked in, which was a good thing. It was inevitable that someone would recognize him, but he wanted to prolong that moment as long as possible. He watched and waited, leaning against the wall, reminding himself that even those who did connect the face with the name wouldn't remember seeing him after tonight.

He did look different than he had three years earlier, though, when his picture had been splashed across the front page of every wizarding paper in the country. For one thing, he had changed his glasses to more stylish, rectangular frames. For another, he now cast a highly localized Glamour to his forehead every morning, hiding the well-known scar.

He had begun that practice on the advice of one of the Aurors. Proudfoot was not a talkative man, but during Harry's first week, he had pulled him aside during a class on Glamours and other image-distorting Charms and said, "That scar will make you a target. I will teach you how to hide it."

It was amazing, actually, how differently the other trainees treated him once it was hidden. Even though they still knew who he was, somehow without the scar he finally became just one of the boys, so to speak. It removed the visual reminder of what he had done to end the war, Hermione said. She was probably right. She always was.

"May I suggest going for a drink at the bar if you are feeling unsure of yourself?"

Harry jumped and looked to his right. Herbert's head was sticking through the wall next to him.

"Oh. Drink. Good idea. … I suppose I'm not just here to admire the scenery."

"There's nothing wrong with that," said Herbert. "In fact, if you do choose to be a wallflower, I may stay right behind you and admire what _I_ see all night."

Harry wasn't sure what to say in response to that. It was the first time he'd had his arse complimented by another bloke -- or anyone, really. At least, he thought that had been a compliment about his arse. But what if he had completely misinterpreted? If he said "thank you" and was wrong then he would seem like a total prat, but--

"You are exquisitely adorable," said Herbert, drifting closer to Harry. "But you should go find a more solid admirer. Someone who can touch you and taste you." He said the last few words in barely a whisper, then slid back into the corridor, and Harry was once again alone.

Feeling bolder because of the ghost's words, Harry moved into the crowd.

-:-:-:-

It took all of ten seconds for him to be recognized after he'd sat down at the far end of the bar, and only a fraction of a second longer for him to wish he had never set foot in the Broom Closet at all.

"This is the first time I've wanted a way to evade the memory charms of this place. If only I could tell someone tomorrow. I suppose I'll have to settle for tormenting you while you're here tonight."

Harry wanted to sink into the floor. He hadn't even needed to look up from his study of the drinks menu -- he had been deciding between a Ginger Snap and a Tickletini -- to know who was speaking to him. That drawling voice was immediately recognizable.

Draco Malfoy. Of all the people in all the world, why did it have to be him? Couldn't all the annoying people be straight? Harry clenched the menu, feeling the paper crinkle under his fingers, and didn't look up. Maybe he would go away if he ignored him.

Draco pushed at the stooped, balding man who was sitting on the stool next to Harry's, a large collection of empty glasses in front of him. "Get lost. I was sitting here," he said. The man shrugged and staggered to his feet. Harry turned to watch him weave drunkenly across the floor, wondering if he needed help. The man collapsed onto a nearby couch, and soon had a slim fellow with curly auburn hair straddling him. Clearly he was going to be fine. Draco slid onto the newly freed stool and signalled to the bartender.

"I don't see how you have anything to torment me about," said Harry, finally looking over at his unwelcome companion, "seeing as you're here too. That would be kind of hypocritical, wouldn't it?"

Draco looked different. Harry supposed that he looked about as different as Harry did himself. He was a little older, of course, and also taller and broader. His hair was short and purposefully dishevelled, a marked change from the neatly ordered style he'd sported in school. But aside from that, there was something about his face that had changed. He didn't look tired, exactly, just … cynical. Perhaps that made sense. Life hadn't been particularly kind to Draco in the last several years. Of course, that was mostly his own fault.

"Right," said Draco. "Because my sexual orientation would be so terribly shocking in light of my perfect personal record up 'til now. 'Did you hear about the Malfoy boy? He's _queer_!' 'Wasn't he also nearly a Death Eater?' 'Who cares about that? He fucks men. How appalling.'" Draco sneered at his drink -- a shot glass full of something blue and glowing -- and downed it in one gulp.

"Yeah, you have a point," said Harry, trying in vain to get the attention of the bartender. He needed a drink _right now_ if he was going to get through this conversation.

"That might be the first time you've ever admitted that I was right. Colour me flattered." It was clear from his tone that he was anything but flattered.

"Well, as far as I can remember, it's the first time you've ever _been_ right."

"That's probably true," said Draco quietly, his mouth twisting into a bitter grimace.

Harry studied Draco's face. He felt a strange sense of freedom, knowing that neither of them would remember this conversation in the morning.

"What did you mean when you said you were 'nearly a Death Eater'?"

"Potter, this is a gay club. You come here to fuck, or suck, or watch or … whatever it is that gets you off. You don't, as a general rule, ask personal questions about wars that are long since over."

"I'm not gay," blurted Harry.

"I don't fucking care what you are. But clearly, what you _are_ is in denial. You wouldn't be here if you weren't--"

"No, I'm ambi … ambi-something." What had that dusty old man said? "Ambisexual!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," said Draco, shaking his head. "I think I'll call you 'The Boy Who Lived In Denial' from now on. And by 'from now on' of course I mean 'for the next hour'. Bloody memory wards. I could have had fun with this information."

Harry decided he should go back to ignoring Draco. He raised his hand again, renewing his effort to order a Ginger Snap, extra strong. Draco watched him, one elbow on the bar and hand on his chin. He seemed to be enjoying Harry's futile attempt to get attention. Mentally, Harry changed his drink order to a double shot of Firewhisky, straight up.

After a few minutes of exponentially rising annoyance, Harry had had enough.

"Sod it," he muttered, getting up and pushing his way through the crowd, trying to remember where the exit was -- was it on the wall across from the entrance? This had been a monumental mistake. He was never coming here again, never even thinking about--

He stopped short when he felt a hand on the back of his neck. Warm breath tickled at his ear, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a pale blond head hovering near his shoulder.

"Aw, you're not leaving so soon, are you?"

How did one make one's voice that mocking, exactly? Was it genetic? Harry turned around, his eyes nearly even with Draco's. That Draco was just slightly taller than he was only added to his annoyance.

"Yes, I am. I don't know what I'm doing, all right? I just kept seeing these adverts and sometimes I think about blokes, and I never thought it meant anything except for one more way that I was different from everyone else. But then there was this old man and a bloody gorgeous ghost and they both seemed to think I was normal, and … I just wanted to feel normal for once in my life. But instead you're here and I can't even get a fucking drink. So yes, I am leaving so soon."

He spun around and continued his angry procession towards the far corner, where he could discern a small sign on the wall above a door. Perhaps that was the exit. Unfortunately, Draco followed right behind him, grabbing hold of Harry's wrist as he pushed through the crowd.

The crowd thinned considerably a few feet from the door. Harry rounded on Draco, wrenching his hand away as he turned. "Leave me alone! Shouldn't you go, I dunno, find some guy to suck off or something?" Emotion surged through him and he balled his hands into fists, wanting desperately to physically remove the smirk from Draco's face.

Only, there was no smirk, Harry saw. Before he could even begin to wonder why Draco looked so intent, he was pinned against the wall, with Draco's body pushed against his. Their chests and thighs were touching, and Harry could feel-- oh fuck, that was Draco's cock, hard and pressing against his. The heat between them was incredible; between the heat and the pressure, Harry could barely get enough air without gasping. Draco slammed his forehead into Harry's hard enough that Harry felt pain where his head met the wall behind him.

"Shut up, Potter," Draco said, thrusting his hips. It was a small movement, but it sent a surge of pleasure through Harry as their cocks rubbed together through their clothes.

"Fuck," whispered Harry. He could barely think. His anger was rapidly morphing into arousal, the likes of which he had never felt before. Draco's face filled his field of vision, blurry and pale. When Draco rocked his hips again, Harry closed his eyes, trying to fight off the urge to push back against him. He couldn't do this -- maybe with someone else, but not--

The third time he felt Draco's body rub against his, the last thin thread holding him back snapped. He had had enough of wondering about his sexuality and worrying and wanting and not knowing who the fuck he was. Enough. He had to know. What did it matter who he was with when he figured it out?

With a growl, he grabbed Draco's arse with both hands and pulled, moving his hips forward at the same time. With them both in motion, the pleasure was even more intense. They moved against each other again and again, their breath hot on each other's faces.

"I think," said Draco, panting, "that we should … take this into … the back corridor." He repositioned his head -- Harry could feel the pressure lift from his forehead -- and kissed Harry's open mouth. Their tongues and lips met and began to move, keeping a steady rhythm separate from the movement of their hips.

Harry couldn't believe how good he felt. He was fully clothed and yet every inch of his skin surged with pleasure. Draco's mouth was hot and sweet and kissing him felt like taking the first bite into a perfectly ripe plum, only after each bite the plum was magically whole again.

Belatedly, Harry realized what Draco had suggested. The back corridor. That was where the private rooms were. Private rooms for sex. His skin would touch Draco's skin without the layers of fabric in between; their cocks would rub directly together. Just the thought spiked Harry's arousal up so high that the next time Draco moved his hips, Harry came. He moaned, his mouth still on Draco's, and thrust forward with short, erratic motions, tightening his grip on Draco's arse.

Draco pulled his head back slightly. "Did you just…" he said, still moving against Harry.

Harry nodded, and Draco pushed himself away. "For fuck's sake, Potter. I had more stamina when I was thirteen."

Through the haze of pleasure, Harry could see that Draco was annoyed, but he couldn't really bring himself to care. He stepped forward and in one swift -- though not terribly smooth -- motion, stuck his hand down the front of Draco's trousers. He pulled at Draco's cock, trying to do what he did to himself when he wanked, but finding it difficult with the limited space in Draco's pants.

"Next time I'll last longer," said Harry, squeezing the warm length in his hand. Abruptly, Draco grabbed Harry's shoulder and closed his eyes; Harry felt warm liquid pulse over his fingers and smiled.

He extracted his sticky hand and wiped it down the front of Draco's shirt. "Wow," said Harry, "your stamina is much better than mine. I'm impressed."

Draco glared at him, his face flushed, and walked away.

-:-:-:-

The next morning, Harry took delivery of the Saturday paper from a tawny owl and, settling into the manky brown sofa he and Ron had found in the alley, flipped to the sport section.

"THE BROOM CLOSET. NOW THAT WE'VE MET, WE'RE SURE YOU WON'T FORGET. OPEN NOON TO 4 AM EVERY DAY*"

The words were blinking on the page in front of him, partially obscuring yesterday's scores. He squinted, barely making out the tiny footnote at the bottom of the advertisement: "*Yes, even Christmas! Who doesn't want a blow job from Saint Nick?"

Harry grinned, feeling a throb of anticipation deep inside of him. They opened at noon! That was only two hours and forty-four -- no, forty-three -- minutes away!

He'd better go take a shower. And he had to figure out what to wear. And also, he had to try to do something with his hair.

Last night had been incredible -- his memories were dominated by an overwhelming sense of pleasure. He didn't know exactly what he had done, but he remembered friction and heat and another mouth on his. He felt a lightness that he hadn't felt, well, ever. He knew who he was. Sort of. His attraction to men was real, at least. He now knew it was something he could explore without fear. No one would know. He couldn't wait to go back. This time it was going to be even better.

Forty-three minutes later, he stepped into a large, empty room. He walked around the cleanly decorated space, admiring the stylish bar and the floating lights overhead. Finally, he settled himself on a black leather couch, waiting for someone -- anyone -- to arrive.

-:-:-:-

The sound of footsteps woke him. He kept his eyes shut. It must be Ron, back early from Hermione's. They'd probably gotten into a fight.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Harry blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing.

"Were you here last night as well? You must have been." The blurry figure standing over him emitted a miserable groan. "This explains my memories. And my shirt. No one but you could be capable of annoying me that deeply."

Where was he, and why was he being yelled at by that oddly familiar voice that wasn't Ron's?

"Fuck, I'm going to have to find another closeted club. And the nearest one that I know of is in Wales, and I hate Wales. Get some fucking vowels in your words, wankers."

All at once, Harry remembered where he was, and realized to whom the voice belonged. Oh, this wasn't how his second visit was supposed to go.

He sat up quickly, trying to shake off his grogginess, groping around for his glasses. Once he could see again, he looked around at the other black leather couches, all empty. There was no one else in the room save for Draco. Even the bartender wasn't in yet.

"I fell asleep," said Harry, rubbing at his forehead.

"Yes, I realized that when I walked in and saw you drooling on my favourite couch."

"Huh? You can't have a favourite! I didn't even remember that it _had_ couches when I came in here tonight, and I must have been in this room before."

"Tonight?" Draco looked pointedly at his watch. "It's just past two in the afternoon."

"Fine," said Harry, "when I came in here at precisely noon. Happy?"

"No, because I came here to be fucked by the first man I saw, and that man is you, which means I am going to leave here unsatisfied yet again."

"How do you know I wouldn't satisfy you?" said Harry, feeling slightly insulted and still fuzzy from his accidental nap.

Draco was silent for a moment. "How can one person be so clueless? Don't you realize …? No, never mind. I'm saying I would never even give you the chance, you imbecile."

"Oh." Harry thought about it for a moment. "Right. The feeling is entirely mutual."

"Excellent," Draco said, sitting down next to Harry. "Then we wait. I get first dibs on whoever comes in. Anyone unacceptable is yours."

"Whatever." Harry leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Maybe he should move to another couch. Or leave and come back in a few hours. But he was so comfortable. He and Ron should buy a leather couch for their flat.

He tried to remember what he had been thinking about before he had fallen asleep, but it was lost to the ether, so instead he thought back to the pleasure of another body rubbing against his, the heat and rhythm of moving and kissing. It could have been anyone. This place was amazing. He could do whatever he liked. It didn't matter who he was or who the other person was. His eyes snapped open.

"Malfoy?" As horrible as Draco was, if Harry looked at him dispassionately he could see he was kind of ... not un-sexy.

"What?"

"Why wouldn't you? I mean, I'm not saying you'd be my first choice or anything, but it's not as if I'll remember it was you afterward. Why should you care?"

"Because it makes a difference," Draco said. "Haven't you noticed that you remember more than the pleasure? You keep all your emotional memories as well. With you I'm sure the intense sense of disgust I feel when I look at you would overshadow any small amount of pleasure I might take from our ... physical coupling."

Harry shrugged, ignoring the insult. "I dunno. Last night was my first time here, and all I remember is incredible pleasure. … Malfoy? What's wrong?"

Draco had dropped his head into his hands, and was leaning his elbows on his thighs. He muttered something that Harry couldn't understand and then sat up. "First time here? How exciting for you," he said, glaring at Harry. "I'll bet you came in your pants before you could even get to a back room."

"Um," said Harry, his cheeks growing warm. "I don't know where I was, but … I do think the part about my pants is right, yeah." He fought off his embarrassment; he had been a sticky mess when he got back to his flat. It didn't matter. This conversation would soon cease to exist. "But … it was really good."

"Even getting your head slammed into … hmm, a wall, I would guess?"

Harry scrambled to his feet, touching the back of his head; he had noticed the tender bump this morning when he had washed his hair. "He said the memory boundary was completely effective. You saw me! You found a way around it!" This was terrible. He would tell the world. Everyone would know.

"I didn't _see_ you. Merlin, don't you get it?" said Draco, waving his hands. Harry's failure to get it, whatever "it" was, was obviously exasperating him. "I'm the one that did it."

"Oh God, that's even worse," said Harry, pacing away from Draco and back again. "And you still remember that it was me!"

"I had no idea until I saw you just now. Then, everything clicked into place. The annoyance, the dissatisfaction, the annoyance, the headache -- did I mention the annoyance?" Draco shrugged. "I won't remember once I leave. Neither will you."

"Oh. Okay." Harry sat down on the edge of the couch, his knee bouncing up and down. This was too weird. Draco Malfoy had given him one of the best orgasms of his life? The arse he remembered grabbing belonged to--

"Stand up," said Harry.

"Why?"

"I want to feel your arse. Don't worry, I just want to see if you really--" before Harry could finish his sentence, Draco was standing in front of him, facing away "--are the one from last night." Someone certainly seemed eager.

Harry reached up and tentatively poked one cheek with his fingertips, then cupped Draco's arse using both of his hands. The fabric of his trousers was smooth and beneath it lay firm, hard muscle. He heard Draco exhale audibly.

"Hmm. It's … kind of hard to tell from this angle," said Harry, feeling his cock stir. As he had said earlier, what did it matter who he was with when he was here? He stood and walked around Draco until he was facing him. They weren't touching, but were close enough that Harry could smell the scent of Draco's skin. Harry was overwhelmed by recognition: it had been him. He hadn't even remembered the smell until now, but it was unmistakable. He put his arms around Draco, running his hands down his back until they rested on his arse, which also felt familiar. "It _was_ you," he said. Lust coursed through him. "What do we do now?"

"Go to the back corridor and fuck?"

Harry dug his fingers into Draco's backside. "But you just said … what was it? Something about disgust overwhelming pleasure?"

"I … may have exaggerated slightly."

"Right, slightly," said Harry, feeling something distinctly hard and cock-shaped poking through Draco's trousers. He scanned the room for the location of the back corridor. There it was. His body hummed with excitement.

He led the way to the door in the corner, over which hung a small sign reading "Private Rooms." Behind the door was a long corridor, plushly carpeted and lined with doors, all closed and all bearing glowing green lights in their centres.

"Green means free," Herbert had said. Harry opened the first door on the left. Inside was a wide double bed; the walls were a deep purple. He walked into the room and looked around. There was nothing else but a small potted plant in the corner.

"Ugh, I hate purple," said Draco, walking in behind Harry. "Walls: slate blue."

The colour immediately shifted to a … well, it was some sort of blue. Harry wasn't sure if it was slate blue, since he wasn't precisely sure what slate blue looked like.

"Is this like the Room of Requirement?" asked Harry, wondering if he could ask for a snack later.

"No, it's only the walls that change. Didn't that ghost man tell you that?" Draco sat on the bed and began to unbutton his shirt.

"I … I don't think so," said Harry, staring at the bulge pushing against Draco's trousers.

Harry took off his t-shirt and then hesitantly slid off his jeans. He was now completely naked; he had spent twenty minutes after his morning shower trying to choose between boxer shorts and y-fronts before deciding on neither. His cock was hard and pulsing in front of him. He stood by the bed, feeling out of place, his mind full of nonsensical gibbering.

Keeping his eyes focused intently on Harry, Draco pulled off his pants, exposing his own erection. He lay back on the bed, head resting against one of the large pillows. He was long and lean and hard and pale. "Come here," he said.

Harry made an inarticulate noise and crawled onto the bed. He knelt between Draco's legs, placed his shaking hands on either side of Draco's torso and leaned forward, bringing his head down low and running his tongue along the subtle lines on Draco's abdomen and chest, where muscle and bone ran under skin. It was like warm, chiselled marble, and it tasted vaguely of salt and smelled like that scent that Harry had recognized earlier. He breathed in deeply, trying to figure it out … some combination of exotic spices that he couldn't name.

He felt a hand run through his hair and down the back of his neck, where it rested, gripping tightly.

"Fuck me," said Draco, as Harry tasted the skin just above his pubic hair. "… Got myself ready before I … came here."

Harry didn't even know what that meant, exactly, that he had gotten himself ready. Clearly Draco knew what he was doing, which was a good thing. Harry sat back, running his hand along the solid lines of Draco's thighs. The hair was so pale as to be almost invisible. "I've never done this before," he admitted.

"Never?"

"Well, I mean … never with a man. Except last night, in my pants, but that's not … this." Harry leaned forward again, resting his hands on either side of Draco's ribcage. Their cocks brushed together briefly, the contact making thousands of nerve endings wildly happy. Harry groaned and Draco's breath hitched.

"That's all that counts," said Draco with a crooked smile. "Pity I won't remember that I was your first." He brought his knees towards his chest and then reached between his splayed legs and guided Harry's cock where it needed to go. A spasm of pleasure ran through Harry as the tip made contact with the slick, warm flesh.

"God, that would be … terrible. You would lord it over me forever." Harry was shaking. "Can I just … push in?"

Draco nodded and made a little humming noise in the back of his throat.

So Harry did. "Oh, fuck," he said, pushing in until he couldn't push any further. "That's … nnng." He rocked his hips, unable to not move. Not moving was inconceivable. Draco made a whining noise and stroked roughly at his own cock. Encouraged that he wasn't doing it completely wrong -- not that he would have necessarily cared at this point -- Harry began to move his hips more and more, until he was slamming into Draco over and over, pulling nearly out each time before plunging back in. He closed his eyes, revelling in the feel of alternating tight, slick warmth and the relative coolness of the air.

A familiar sense of pressure and need began to build up, starting at the base of his cock and inching up along his spine towards his head. With each thrust the need got more desperate, the pleasure greater, but at the same time reminding him of what was missing, what more he could feel if he just went a little further, making him drive in harder and faster.

Harry felt Draco tense; he opened his eyes to see Draco scrunching up his face, his teeth bared in a silent snarl and come pulsing onto his stomach and hand. Harry groaned as ecstasy shot through him, following an invisible line from his cock and out through the top of his head. His body pulsed, expanding and contracting as he emptied himself into Draco.

When he was done, he collapsed forward, his head on the pillow next to Draco's. His face was pressed against Draco's neck and their chests were aligned so Harry could feel both their hearts beating, the combined rhythm fast and erratic. He closed his eyes and felt his body relax utterly, with the smell of sweat and that mysterious spice flooding his senses.

"Potter. Don't fall asleep."

"Mmm. 'Mnot." Harry breathed deeply. "Just … relaxed. … Ow! Did you pinch me?"

"No, it was the other guy you just fucked. … No! Don't bite my neck, it'll leave marks."

Harry released Draco's skin from between his teeth. "Sorry."

"You're ... different," said Draco after a few minutes of silence. "I don't mind you so much like this."

"Naked?"

"No. Well, I can tolerate you that way, provided you don't talk. But I meant … in here, we're stripped of … stripped of our pasts. No, that's not it. It's only … our pasts almost don't matter in here, because nothing sticks. In real life, once you say something, you can't un-say it. Actions and words have consequences."

Harry slid out of Draco and rolled to the side, propping himself up on one elbow.

"If I were to run into you on the street," continued Draco, stretching his legs out and staring up at the ceiling, "I would have to watch what I said to you, because it might come back to haunt me later. You are a person of importance. You have influence. I could never, for example, tell you I've wanted to do what we just did since fifth year. Or maybe fourth year, I can never remember."

"But you could now," said Harry, wondering if that was actually true.

"No, you don't understand. That's the whole point. I _wouldn't_ because there would be consequences. Because if I did, you would be horrified, even if you secretly lusted after me too. You'd have to be, because out there your reactions last. They become part of who you are and what you know about yourself and have to fit in with what you've already thought and already done. You'd have to be horrified, because you've always hated me and you can't change that."

Harry wasn't sure he was following, exactly. Reactions just happened, didn't they? "I don't hate you. I just wish you …"

"Go on." There was a dangerous edge to Draco's voice.

"… I don't know. I was going to say I wish you'd made better choices, but I think other people made a lot of those choices for you." In the year after the war, Harry had done a lot of thinking about the Malfoys. In time, he'd realized he mostly felt sorry for Draco. "And I can't say I wish your father hadn't been there, because he loved you, I know, and I never even knew my father. I do wish he hadn't been a Death Eater. But your mother saved my life, so if your father hadn't been involved with Voldemort, then I might have died. I don't know. I guess all I wish is that Tom Marvolo Riddle had never been born."

Draco closed his eyes and nodded.

"How is your mother, by the way?"

Harry hadn't seen her since that day. He had heard she and Draco still lived in their manor in Wiltshire. Her husband had been re-incarcerated to serve the remainder of his sentence, plus ten years for escaping.

"Fine," said Draco tightly. "We get by. One day the Malfoy name will have clout again."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to that.

"This bloody place and its magic," said Draco with a humourless laugh. "This is what it does to you. There's no harm in saying whatever you want, because the next time you see the person, neither of you will remember a thing about it. I won't remember what I say, let alone you. I imagine that every time I come here I am equally as stunned by the implications, but of course I don't remember. It seems liable to make one fearless, and also ... reckless. Is that what it's like to be a Gryffindor? Do you feel like this all the time -- able to act without first weighing the consequences?" He looked faintly repulsed at the idea.

"No," said Harry, "I feel it too, I think. I … I dunno, I can't normally do whatever I want, you know. People expect things of me. I'm going to be an Auror, and they expect me to be really good at it. I am good, but I'm … not as good as they think I am. I mean, I was just lucky, most of the time. And I had help from so many people." He ran his hand lightly along Draco's chest. "God, this is surreal. I'm naked in a room with you and talking about the war and my life and ... I think even if there were no memory spells here, it wouldn't matter, because I'd just think I'd gone mad or had a crazy dream."

Harry rolled onto his back to join in the study of the ceiling. It wasn't as interesting as it seemed to be to Draco.

He still felt the gooey warmth of his afterglow, but on top of that he felt something more -- something powerfully peaceful and calming. He closed his eyes. "This place is better than therapy," he muttered, feeling himself pulled towards sleep.

When he woke up, it was nearly five o'clock and Draco was gone.

-:-:-:-

The following days passed in a blur of activity -- training always got more intense toward the end of the term -- yet time seemed to have distended since Harry's visit to the Broom Closet. A day expanded to a year, and a month may as well have been an eternity. He had decided he wouldn't go back until the next weekend Ron was away, but that wasn't for nearly four weeks; he wasn't sure he could wait that long.

When he was required to be in motion -- acting on impulse, thinking on his feet -- he was fine. That was how it had always been for him, though: put him under pressure and conscious thought faded away, leaving only his instincts. As he drilled defensive spells and cast volleys of hexes at targets, he thought of nothing, letting his body move and incantations pour out of him. But when he sat at a table with the other trainees listening to a lecture on the theory of cloaking spells, or when he lay in bed at night listening to lorries rattling the windows as they passed on the street, or when he sat on his manky brown couch with Ron and watched the telly, he could think of nothing but thrusting and heat and sweat and pleasure. He'd wanked more often than ever before in his life, but it didn't seem to make any difference. One split second of the sensory memory of skin against skin and he was hard again and aching for release.

By Thursday, he'd decided that if he didn't go back to the Broom Closet soon, he was likely to be kicked out of Auror training; he had completely missed the entirety of the day's lecture on Urban Stealth Techniques due to the frenzied imaginary fucking that was going on in his head.

That night, while Ron was absorbed in some programme about race cars, Harry stood up and stretched, aiming for casual, and announced he was going for a walk.

"Now? It's nearly eleven."

"I just … need to get out by myself for a bit."

Ron looked over at Harry and pressed his lips together, then nodded, looking sympathetic. "All right. See you later, then."

As Harry was about to close the door behind him, Ron called out, "If you ever need to, you know, talk about … anything." He flipped the remote control over and over in his hands. "You know. I'm here."

Harry stopped breathing for a moment. "I'm fine," he said finally. "I'm just going for a walk."

"I know. It's … next week it'll be June. Kind of sneaks up on you, doesn't it?"

Harry nodded quickly and shut the door. Guilt overwhelmed him as he descended the stairs that led to the street. Ron must have noticed how distracted he'd been lately -- come to think of it, he had been giving Harry concerned looks several times per day -- but thought it was because of the impending anniversary of the battle at Hogwarts. Ron himself was probably struggling to cope with yet another reminder of his brother's death. And Harry hadn't even remembered. He'd been too busy revelling in memories of pleasure.

Outside on the street, Harry looked up at the third-story window of their flat, which was flickering with the light from the television. His best friend was up there all alone. He should go back inside. He took a step towards the building.

Out of nowhere, a wave of remembered sensation swept over him. He shuddered at the fleeting burst of pleasure. No, he wouldn't be any use to Ron like this. He had to get this out of his system.

He turned and headed for the alley, where it was safe to Apparate.

-:-:-:-

"You look familiar to me, but I can't quite place where I've seen you before."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," said Harry.

He was sitting on a black leather sofa with a boy of eighteen named Leo. Leo had limp, sandy blond hair, a weak chin, and was a bit dull. But he had a great arse; Harry had noticed it when he had walked into the room and, having resolved to get back home as soon as possible, had approached him immediately.

However, Leo seemed to want to get to know Harry a bit first. He asked about his favourite foods, and his favourite rock bands -- Wizard and Muggle -- as well as his favourite Quidditch team. And that was just to start with.

"I don't mean to be rude," said Harry finally, after informing Leo that he didn't really have a favourite animal, "but I'm in a bit of a hurry. Do you mind if we just … go to a room?"

Leo drew his mouth down into a pout, but his eyes sparkled, making Harry wonder if it might be an act. "James, are you only using me for my body?" he asked, draping himself over Harry's shoulder.

"Um, I just meant, well …"

"It's okay, I want you to," Leo whispered.

Afterward, Harry lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, while Leo lay curled up next to him, prattling on about a concert he had attended the previous week. For the moment, Harry's desires were sated; it turned out that Leo was skilled at putting his tongue to uses other than talking. Still, he couldn't help but compare this session to the one he'd had the other day. It hadn't been the same. Maybe, he told himself, the magic boundary did something to heighten the experience in your mind once you left. That must be it.

He was looking forward to getting out of here, both to see what his memories would be like and to get away from Leo who, frankly, was beginning to annoy him.

"Um. I'm sorry, I've got to leave now," said Harry, sitting up and looking around for his trousers.

"Oh? Sure, OK. Who do you think I should go with next? Did you see that big guy over at the bar? With the tattoos? You think maybe he would be good? I'll bet he's hung."

"Sure, definitely," said Harry, pulling his shirt over his head. He put his glasses back on and then stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at Leo. "See you later."

"Or not, in this case," Leo said with a giggle. "Oh, Merlin! I just realized you look like Harry Potter! Wow. I mean, not exactly … no offence, but no one could be as hot as him."

"None taken."

-:-:-:-

Ron was asleep on the couch when Harry got home; on the television, an overly excited Muggle was demonstrating how his revolutionary new kitchen knife could cut through a lead pipe in one clean motion.

"Yeah, that's a brilliant idea. One slip while making a salad and your finger's gone," muttered Harry. He covered Ron with a blanket and pressed the large orange button on the remote, plunging the room into silence and darkness.

"Mrgh?" said Ron in a sleepy voice.

"It's ok, it's only me," whispered Harry. "I'm home. Go back to sleep."

A few minutes later, Harry was in bed asleep as well. His dreams were of a faceless man with hard, smooth skin. He awoke with the morning sun on his face and a memory of a scent flooding his mind, but by the time he rolled out of bed, he'd forgotten it.

In the shower, Harry reached for his cock, thinking back to last night. He remembered moist heat -- a mouth. A delicate, probing tongue. He felt himself begin to harden in his hand. Threads of emotions wove around the tactile memories: lust, desire, and … boredom? His hand stilled, as he realized there was an order to them; for the first time, he could trace them as they flowed from one to the other. Lust, followed by boredom, followed by … stronger lust, and then … disappointment.

Stroking himself slowly, he thought back to his first two visits. The heat engulfed him immediately; the intensity of this remembered pleasure dwarfed what he had felt last night. Interesting. He sped up the motion of his hand, his arousal building. Too bad he couldn't remember who he'd been with last night -- he was clearly someone to avoid. But the other two had been fantastic. He felt the friction of a clothed body against his, and the sticky sweat of a bare chest, and the twisting of tongues, and the tight heat of being _in_ someone. He gasped and came, bracing himself on the tiled wall with his free hand.

_Well_, he thought as he rinsed himself off, _two out of three isn't so bad_.

-:-:-:-

It was Saturday night. Harry strode through the cool rain, trying to clear his head. He'd been walking for nearly an hour, ever since his abrupt departure from Seamus and Dean's house.

He'd seen them dozens of times since they had come out, but he'd never really watched them, never really seen how they were with each other. He didn't think they had ever been so … demonstrative before. There had been a lot of empty wine bottles on the table at the end of the meal -- maybe they'd gotten a bit tipsy and lost their inhibitions. Although, Seamus had never seemed to have much in the way of inhibitions.

Harry had tried his hardest not to look at them as they'd talked and joked and occasionally kissed throughout the course of the evening, for fear that they would see his eyes and _know_. But clearly he had done a poor job of it, as he could remember every detail. He'd tried to keep up with the conversation while constantly monitoring where he was looking and what he was thinking and what sort of face he was making, but it had been too difficult, and he had finally given up and sat looking down at his plate, poking at the scattered grains of rice that remained and blocking out what was going on around him.

After dinner, everyone had moved out to the garden to sit on flimsy plastic chairs and drink more wine. As Harry passed through the kitchen on his way back from the loo, he heard Seamus' voice through the open window.

"Harry's having a bit of a hard time, isn't he?"

All other conversation stopped. Harry paused in the shadows by the refrigerator.

"Nah, he's fine. Just a bit knackered. Training's a lot of work, you know?"

"Ron," said Hermione, "are you sure? Did you ask him--"

"I said, he's fine," said Ron firmly.

"Has he been checked for Wrackspurts?" asked Luna, at the same time that Neville said, "Harry can take care of himself."

"We only ask because we care." That was Dean's voice, deep and quiet.

Harry walked quickly through the kitchen and out into the garden. Everyone turned as he opened the back door; he saw six faces look towards him, each one full of pity.

"I have to go," he said, looking at Seamus and Dean. "Thanks."

With a brief glance at Ron, he had Apparated to the alley near their flat, but had been unable to go inside -- it was too confining, too warm, too light. A gentle rain had started to fall as he had begun to walk.

Now, he found himself somewhere in London, his hair and clothing soaked through. He looked up at the dark grey sky; the lights of the city illuminated each drop of rain as it fell. Why did he feel like his life was unravelling? He had accepted who he was -- hadn't he? He should feel better now, not like he was going mad. What else could he do?

As if his own feet were responding to the silent question, he turned a corner and saw a familiar worn wooden door. He stopped. Rain ran in rivulets down his face. Even if the answers were in there, he could never get them out. They would be stripped from him each time he left.

A current of need buzzed through him. Maybe the emotion -- what was left -- would be enough. He knew it was a lie, but he walked towards the door anyway.

-:-:-:-

"You're all wet," Herbert said, floating alongside Harry as he made his way down the dark corridor leading to the meeting room.

"It's raining outside. I walked here."

"You might find that a drying charm--"

"I'm not looking for a lesson in Charms. I'm just looking for …" Harry stopped.

Herbert was silent as he floated further down the hallway.

"I don't know what I'm looking for," said Harry, hurrying to catch up. "I'm sorry. I'm having kind of a hard time."

"Whatever it is, you're bound to find it in here," said Herbert as the secret door swung open. "It's especially crowded tonight. Who knows what might happen?"

Harry nodded and ducked through the opening. He knew he had just passed through the memory barrier, but he didn't feel any different. The room -- which looked much like he thought it would, to his surprise -- was indeed packed. There was a solid wall of flesh between him and the bar, and an electric crackle in the air. Half of the crowd seemed to be in some state of disrobe, and the other half looked like they might join in the mass nudity at any moment. Just from where he was standing, Harry could see six blow jobs in progress and at least a dozen hand jobs. The kissing and fondling and groping seemed to intensify as he watched, spreading through the crowd like a brushfire.

This, apparently, was an orgy, or at least the beginnings of one. Harry adjusted himself, sighing at the lessening of pressure on his cock, and wondered how to join in. Could he just walk up to the mass of people and grab someone? The lure of pleasure and anonymity called to him. This is what he needed. He needed to be himself without caring what anyone thought. Fuck everything else.

He began to unbutton his shirt and realized he was still soaked with rain. After a few tries -- the sight of so much sex was highly distracting -- he managed to get most of the water out of his clothing and hair. He finished unbuttoning his shirt and approached a nearby man from behind, placing a hand on his arse. The man shuffled to one side, seeming barely to notice Harry, and Harry upped the visible-blowjobs-in-progress count to seven. He slipped by the man and moved into the crowd, feeling hands on his bare chest and in his hair and on his crotch. He ground against whoever or whatever was in front of him, lost in a haze of pleasure. His shirt was gone -- he wasn't sure when that had happened -- and his trousers were unzipped and threatening to fall off. He might prefer them gone entirely, or else he might trip and be trampled by half-naked men. Not that that would be such a bad way to die, he thought as someone licked one of his nipples.

He pressed onward, not sure where he was going but needing to move, revelling in the pleasure of pure physical contact. A new presence came up behind him, pressing closer than the others. It felt personal, intentional. These new hands explored his back and shoulders, moving around to his chest and down his abdomen and to his hips, where they pushed at his trousers and underpants until they fell around his ankles. Harry stilled as the hands stroked the underside of his cock, pulling upwards, alternating one after the other to make one long continuous movement. It was too much; Harry didn't want to come yet, so he pushed the hands away and turned, wanting to reach out towards this stranger who was making him feel so good.

Unfortunately, his trousers were still around his ankles, and as he turned, he stumbled. Fortunately, there wasn't far for him to go. Strong hands grabbed him, keeping him upright, but Harry didn't really notice, because he was too busy being shocked that he was face to face with a shirtless Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy," Harry said as he regained his balance, barely able to hear his own voice over the cacophony of moans and music and muttered expletives, "what are you doing?" At that moment, he became aware of a scent, and of other memories associated with that scent. "You," Harry breathed. He put his head down and nuzzled Draco's neck. Here was the man Harry had been with the first and second visits. That it had been the same person both times was a revelation -- that it had been Draco Malfoy was unbelievable.

Draco pulled at Harry's hair. "What are _you_ doing?" he asked. "My cock is much more sensitive than my neck, you might--"

Harry lifted his head and kissed Draco. He wanted to taste him again, to feel his tongue and lips, but also he wanted him to shut up before he said anything to ruin Harry's buzz of pleasure.

After a few seconds, Draco pulled away. His eyes were wide. "You," he said. He ran his fingertips lightly along the curve of Harry's arse. "Back room. I want you to myself."

Harry followed through the throng of bodies, leaving his clothing behind, following Draco's blond head like a beacon. Half a dozen hands stroked at his cock along the way; he barely made it to the back corridor without coming.

That would have been embarrassing, he thought as he kicked the door shut and pushed Draco onto the bed.

-:-:-:-

The rain had stopped, and the night air was pleasantly cool. As Harry walked down the dark street, he examined his memories of what had just happened. First, there had been touch. So much touch, from so many directions. He relived each feeling, each stroke of a hand, the twining of tongues and the friction of skin on skin. He could close his eyes and feel his toes pushing against soft fabric -- sheets on a bed, most likely -- and his cock pressing into someone else's body.

It seemed that it got easier every time to find and follow the progression of sensations and emotions and … smells. He stopped at the recollection of a particular scent. He recognized it. Like a blurry image snapping into focus with the twist of a camera lens, he suddenly saw it clearly: it connected back to his other visits. Not the last one, but the others. With that in his mind, he began to search for other similarities as well. He found them easily. The same mouth and skilful tongue. The same narrow, firm arse, feeling just so under his hands. It was the same man -- it must be. Holding that knowledge in his mind, Harry turned into the nearest alley and Apparated home. He had to write this down; he didn't want to let the idea slip away.

In his room, he grabbed his Chudley Cannons calendar, which until now had been utterly neglected; it still showed the month of January. He flipped to May and marked a small star on the dates he had been to the Broom Closet. Then he circled the star on days when he had been with the man -- whoever he was.

Harry sat down on his bed, smiling. With enough visits, he would find the man again.

-:-:-:-

He went nearly every night after that. After a week or so, Ron stopped asking if he was all right, and let him go for his nightly walks without a word.

Harry didn't know how he was able to find the man, but more often than not, he did. Did the man look for him too?

Two months passed in a blur -- and with them the end of the second year of Auror training and the third anniversary of Voldemort's death.

Harry clung to his memories of pleasure and scent, thinking only of the nights to come.

-:-:-:-

He had been lounging on the sofa reading a fantasy novel -- a fellow Auror trainee had loaned the series to him before the start of their summer holidays in June, and he was hooked -- when Ron and Hermione had come tumbling out of the Floo, much to Harry's surprise. They were supposed to be on holiday in Cornwall for the whole week.

He'd been so startled that he hadn't quite caught what Ron had said.

"Sorry ... you what?" said Harry, looking up at them, and then immediately looking down again to make sure he was wearing pants. He was. Excellent. He dropped the paperback onto the cushion next to him.

"She said yes. We're getting married!" Ron reached for Hermione's left hand and brandished it at Harry. There did indeed appear to be a slim, sparkling band around her third finger.

"Wow," said Harry, standing and approaching them. "That's ... that's amazing news. Congratulations. Really, I'm really happy for you two." He cuffed Ron on the shoulder. Ron grinned and pulled him in for a hug, slapping his back a few times.

"Well, I'll just be going now," said Hermione after Harry had hugged her as well. "See you soon, Ron?"

"Wait, where are you going? We should celebrate!" said Harry. Today was a Tuesday, and the man -- his man, he sometimes thought -- had never been there on a Tuesday. He was pretty sure he could safely skip going tonight.

"We're still on holiday, Harry. We just wanted to tell you straight away. And also, Ron has something to ask you," she said, eyeing Ron.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mum. Bleugh, forget I said that." Once Hermione had kissed Ron on the cheek and vanished back through the fireplace, Ron turned to Harry, his face solemn. "You'll be my best man, won't you?"

"Of course. You don't even need to ask."

Ron's smile returned briefly, then disappeared again. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, that I was going to ask her. I wanted to. But I didn't ... I just didn't know how to tell you without upsetting you."

"What, did you think I wouldn't be happy about it? Didn't we sort out ages ago that I don't think about Hermione that way?"

Ron shook his head. "No, that's not what I meant. I just ... I dunno, it will change things. And you and Ginny ..."

Ginny. Harry had tried not to think about Ginny lately. They hadn't made any promises when she'd left -- had it really been nearly a year ago? -- but he couldn't help but wonder if she had some kind of expectation that things would pick up between them again when she came home.

"Me and Ginny what?"

"Forget it." Ron shuffled his feet on the worn yellow carpet. "I just don't want you to be alone."

He wasn't alone. He didn't feel alone, at least, but to everyone else he must look it. What else could Ron think about his nightly walks? How could he explain?

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"No, it's all right. Anyway," said Harry, putting a smile on his face, "who says I'll be alone? Hermione is going to move in with us after you get married, right?"

Ron smiled weakly, his eyebrows up.

"That was a joke."

"Right, I knew that. Very funny, mate," said Ron with a forced laugh.

Harry shifted awkwardly on his feet. His life was so separate from his friends now. When had that happened? Why hadn't he noticed?

"I'd better get back. Hermione is probably standing in front of the Floo with her arms crossed by now."

"Right. Her foot's probably tapping too. And I'll bet she has that expression on her face, you know the one?"

"Oh yeah," said Ron, starting towards the fireplace. "I'll see you on Sunday?"

"Sure, see you," said Harry as Ron disappeared in a puff of powder and flame. He flopped back down on the couch, his head back, staring at the ceiling. There was a water stain beginning to creep across from the corner; he'd have to tell the landlord.

Since when had they become adults? He was going to be twenty-one in exactly a week. That couldn't possibly be old enough to get married.

Except that it was. How old had his parents been, after all?

He would be an Auror in a year's time. The world would expect him to be grown up and responsible. He'd always imagined that when he was a grown-up he would have a family, but that time had seemed far in the distant future. But it wasn't -- it was right now, and he wasn't ready at all. He didn't want his life to change -- he wanted to keep spending his nights at the Broom Closet. What was he doing?

Anyway, Ron and Hermione were different. They'd been together for three years now. And they hadn't been through the same things he had; they hadn't _died_, for fuck's sake. It was all right for them to be getting married -- it didn't mean that he had to. It was fine for him to think only of the stranger whose body he knew intimately, but whose face was a blank. It didn't mean he would never have a family. He would someday. Just not now.

He tapped his foot, agitated. If only there was someone he could talk to without forgetting the words afterward. Someone who understood what he was going through ... someone who would keep his secrets.

Harry pictured a smiling, translucent face and got to his feet.

A minute later, he was pacing near the Broom Closet's entrance, or at least where the entrance should have been. Damn it, where was the door? After a few minutes it appeared, and Harry rushed through.

"Good evening, sir," said the dust-covered man, his quill scratching across a piece of parchment.

"Hi. I need to talk to Herbert," Harry said, putting a galleon down on the desk -- the usual cost for entrance.

"It will just be a moment, if you please. He's with a customer. New fellow."

Harry looked around the room while he waited. Through the dust, he saw that the walls were actually black, as was the staircase behind the desk; it wound up into the murky heights of the room.

"This place is kind of gloomy, you know," said Harry.

"The Hollingburys spelled the walls black out of grief," said the man, looking up at Harry. "When they gave their home to our institution, part of the agreement was that it would be left exactly as it had been on the day their son died."

"So, it's never even been cleaned?"

"Certainly not!"

"What happened to their son?" asked Harry. He'd had no idea this place had such a macabre history.

"He was murdered ... stabbed in the back just outside the door," said the man. "He bled to death in this room, very near where you're standing. That's why he prefers to stay in the corridor." The man bowed his head and began to write again. A few seconds later, the hidden panel slid open. Harry walked through, feeling as though he had just been doused in ice water.

-:-:-:-

Herbert seemed slightly embarrassed by Harry's concern. "I died a long time ago," he said. "I don't like to think of it. Now, the crowd is a bit thin tonight, but--"

"No, I came here to talk to you, not to go in."

"Oh. I see. Because I was murdered, and you want to know the gory details?" Herbert's nostrils flared. "You didn't strike me as the type, James."

"Harry. My name is Harry. And I didn't come here to talk to you about that, I only just found out. But ... what I wanted to talk about doesn't seem very important anymore."

Herbert's expression softened. "The problems of the living are always more important than those of the dead. Harry." He said the name slowly, as though trying to adjust to the change. "It look me a long time to accept that, but it's true. Tell me what you came here to discuss."

"Only if you'll tell me what happened to you afterward."

"Very well."

"OK," said Harry. "Um, my friends are getting married. To each other, I mean. Um. I feel like ... like I'm not ready for that. Although it's not as if they're pressuring me to get married. But, you know, they worry that I'm all alone. And I can't tell them that I'm not."

Herbert smiled. "Because you have us."

"Yes, well, because I have _him_, whoever he is," said Harry. Herbert looked puzzled, so Harry explained. "There's one man, I ... I recognize him by smell, I think. I ... look for him whenever I'm here. Because he ... feels the best."

"It's not surprising that one body would give you more pleasure than another."

"No, it's not just pleasure. I mean, the pleasure is great, but it's more than that. When I'm with him I feel ... I just _feel_. Happy and sad and angry and peaceful and ... When I combine all the ... the threads -- that's what they seem like to me, in my head -- when I combine them all, that's what I get -- the feeling that I am really ... alive."

"I know that feeling," said Herbert softly. "It's love."

Love? Was that really what the feeling was? "No, that's not ... that would be terrible, to be in love with someone I'll never know. I mean, not in my real life. I can't live here. I can't meet him out there."

"It's better than the alternative."

"Oh, really? What's the alternative, then?" Harry asked bitterly.

"Meeting him out there and dying."

"Oh."

"His name was Anton. He was a Beater, and he played for England," said Herbert. He went on to tell Harry how he and Anton had met and begun a secret affair. For weeks, he had been blissfully happy, meeting his lover in secret as often as he could. As Herbert talked, Harry saw how his face twisted in sadness and longing.

"Then what happened?" asked Harry.

"It wasn't his fault. We thought no one was around -- we were in an alley late one night," said Herbert, shivering. "We were always so careful. He'd undone my shirt and unlaced my breeches. I was trying to unlace his when they saw us. They recognized him, and when they yelled, he pushed me away. He said awful things to me. He said I had thrown myself at him, half-naked. He was protecting his reputation, you understand. He had to."

Harry didn't understand at all.

"I ran as fast as I could, but they chased after me. My shoe fell off." He gestured down at his feet, one of which was clad in only a stocking. "I was so close to home when they caught me. I could see the light from inside the foyer, shining through the window. I remember being so cold, and trying to breathe, but my lungs felt filled with ice water.

"Mother heard the noise and came to the door. She screamed -- I remember that sound very clearly. Then ... I was inside, and looking up at the chandelier. It was so beautiful, with all those twinkling lights. And then I was looking down at my body, and at the blood pooling around me. So much blood." Herbert was silent a few moments. "That's how I fell in love. And how I died."

"That's ... terrible," said Harry.

"It was a long time ago. This place will ensure that the past does not repeat itself. You will all be safe here." There was a cold determination to Herbert's voice. "Mother made sure of it." He floated away from Harry, apparently lost in his own thoughts, stopping to open the hidden door before continuing off into the darkness.

Harry ducked into the meeting room. He looked around, wondering if he should stay. He didn't really feel like it, but maybe a blow job would be nice. Then he saw Draco Malfoy standing by the bar, chatting up a tall man with straight black hair. _Malfoy is gay?_ thought Harry. _Oh, bloody hell, that's unfortunate_.

Wanting to avoid Draco's notice -- he really wasn't in the mood to deal with him -- Harry hurried towards the exit.

"Leaving so soon, Potter?" called Draco as Harry opened the door. Several other men turned to look at him, and a flurry of whispers sprang up in every corner.

Harry answered without turning around, raising his voice so it carried though the room. "Yeah. There are one too many Slytherins in here for my liking."

He closed the door behind him, feeling a momentary disorientation as he passed through the memory perimeter. He checked his mind, and found nothing -- clearly he had only been in the meeting room briefly.

Back in his flat, he sat on the couch and thought about Herbert's story.

-:-:-:-

When his twenty first birthday arrived a week later, Harry still hadn't figured out what was wrong. He'd been back to the Closet four times, and although each visit had been incredibly pleasurable, he still felt a vague sense of unease. It had been there ever since the night he'd talked to Herbert. The trouble was, he had no idea why. It wasn't Ron and Hermione's engagement, or fears about his impending adulthood -- not really. Something else was bothering him; it felt big and weighty in his mind ... too big to put into words. He lay in bed at night, trying to think it through, but he would always get distracted and end up either wanking or falling asleep. The truth was he had never been very good at figuring out these kinds of problems -- he knew that. He usually had Hermione to talk things over with, or even Ron.

But that was out of the question. Wasn't it?

He was pondering that very thought while he unlocked the door to his flat. As he opened the door, his mind shifted to his wardrobe: he had to get changed quickly, since he was due to meet Ron and Hermione at a nearby Italian restaurant in ten minutes.

God, it was really dark in here. Why were all the drapes closed?

"Surprise!" a throng of voices called out as all the lights went on at once. Harry stood, blinking at the bright, grinning faces arrayed across the living room in a crooked line.

"It's a surprise party, Harry," said Neville. He was wearing a paper hat and was wedged tightly between Ron and Augustus, one of the Aurors-to-be.

"Just in case you were thinking maybe it was a Guatemalan street festival," said George, leaning on the back of the sofa from his position at the end of the line. As always, seeing him without his twin was like seeing someone else with a missing limb.

"Wow," said Harry, "you guys, this is ... thank you. I'm ... really surprised!"

"But wait," said Seamus. "We have another surprise coming!"

"Hey, that was my line!" said Hermione. "Anyway, Harry, we have another surprise for you. In the kitchen." There were a few scattered giggles, and Ron and Hermione smiled maniacally at each other.

"Is it a cake?" Harry asked, walking towards the kitchen door. "Did you get one from Flutterbumble's? Their toffee-coffee-chocolate-treacle-fudge-banana layer cake is really--"

Ginny was standing in the kitchen, smiling hesitantly. Her hair was shorter -- just past her chin, and she was wearing an emerald green, form-fitting t-shirt and a pair of jeans that sat low on her hips, showing off her flat stomach and long, slender legs.

"Hi, Harry," she said. "Happy birthday."

"You're not a cake," said Harry. "I mean, that's good, you're better than a cake."

"We'll meet you at the restaurant in a bit, all right, Harry?" asked Hermione from behind him.

"OK," answered Harry without turning around. He couldn't stop staring at Ginny. He heard the door close and the sound of voices drifting down the hall away from the flat. "It's good to see you," Harry said.

Ginny's smile broadened, and she skipped forward and threw her arms around him. "It's so good to see you, too," she said, holding him tightly. She felt warm and familiar and safe. "I'm sorry I didn't write more. I had such an amazing time, though." She stepped back and looked at him, her eyes shining.

"You'll have to tell me all about it," said Harry. "Just give me five minutes to change and then you can start while we walk to the restaurant."

-:-:-:-

After the last bite of cake had been eaten, the last gift opened, and the last drop of wine drunk, Harry and his friends exited the restaurant, congregating in a knot on the sidewalk in front of the door. One by one they said their goodbyes and headed for home, until only Harry and Ginny were left. Ron had already gone back to the flat.

"Let's walk a little," said Ginny. "We hardly got to talk except on the way here. Ron and his wedding talk sort of dominated the conversation."

"He does seem to be, uh, rather excited about the wedding plans," said Harry, laughing. "Although Hermione will never go for a Quidditch theme."

The air was still warm from the day's heat. They walked through London, with Ginny regaling Harry with tales from her time abroad.

"And I learned this new flying manoeuvre from ... um, from someone I met there, and ..." Ginny's face twisted briefly, a flash of emotion that Harry couldn't identify.

"What's it called?"

"Sorry?"

"The Quidditch move."

"I have to tell you something," said Ginny, stopping and grabbing his arm. "I've kinda been seeing someone for the last six months. I mean, I was. I wasn't planning on it but then it just happened and I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you but when I left, we agreed we weren't together and we hadn't really been together since seventh year and you didn't even seem to care that I was leaving."

"Oh," said Harry. He felt a weight lift off his chest. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he knew exactly what he had to do. "I've been seeing someone, too."

"Oh," echoed Ginny. Harry felt her grip tighten on his arm. "Ron said, I mean, I asked him and he said you hadn't even ..."

"Ron doesn't know. No one does."

"Hmm. This sounds like an interesting story. It's not ... Pansy Parkinson or something, is it?"

Harry shook his head.

"All right, now I have to know," said Ginny, "because if the idea of you and Pansy didn't make you laugh, it's got to be someone even more surprising."

Harry looked around the street. There were a few other people out, enjoying the night air. But it didn't matter -- that was the point, right? It seemed so obvious all of a sudden. No more hiding. He started to walk again, pulling Ginny along with him. "I've been seeing a man." He felt a thrill of fear and excitement at having said it out loud.

"Oh. Wow. Um. You know, suddenly my life makes a lot more sense."

"What do you mean?"

"So, you're ... you're gay."

"Actually, I think I'm, um, bisexual or something like that."

"And, now it makes no sense again ..." muttered Ginny, almost as if to herself.

"Well, it's not exactly that I've been seeing someone. I've been going to ... this place, and I can't tell you everything about it, but ... it's complicated," said Harry.

"I have time," said Ginny, shrugging. "I know it's late, but it's not as if I've got anywhere to go tomorrow. Although, can you believe my mother is already after me to find a job? I just got home this afternoon!"

"Are you going to look for one?"

"Hey, no, no changing the subject. Tell me about this complicated ... thing."

Harry told her as much as he could -- whatever wasn't kept locked in his mind by the Secret. He told her about the magic wards, and what they did to memories, and how he had gone there nearly every day for two months.

"That ... that's mad!" said Ginny, once she understood how the magic worked. "So you could go there and do anything you wanted, and not remember it the next day?"

"Well, you remember some things."

"But still ... sex with whoever. No strings attached."

"I ... yeah, pretty much."

"Wicked. Can I go?"

"Ginny!" said Harry, laughing and shocked. "It's only for men. But ... I mean, would you really want to, you know, have anonymous sex with strangers?"

"Why wouldn't I? You do."

"But ... I'm a bloke, and I thought ..."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You should just stop talking now before you say something even more sexist."

"Sorry," said Harry, "I didn't think. I guess I don't really know much about, um, women's ... um."

"Sex drives? Sexual needs? Bodies?"

"All of the above?"

"Yes, well, let me tell you, that much is obvious now that I've had sex with someone besides you." She slapped a hand over her mouth. "I can't believe I just said that. Sorry."

Harry laughed. "It's all right. I think I'm much better now. Although, I guess it's a little different."

Ginny laughed as well. They walked together in silence for a few minutes. "So, you're not _really_ seeing anyone. I mean, it's not like you even-- what? You just made the weirdest face."

"Yeah. There's one person, and ... I know him, I mean, I know his smell and feel and ... his taste. Every time I go, I decide I'll look for him, and then I do. I ... remember the feelings each time, and I know it's him. I think about him all the time, and I don't even know who the fuck he is."

Ginny made a sympathetic noise and leaned into him a bit as they walked.

"I know I should stop seeing him, but I don't want to. I ... part of me thinks I care about him. But I can't live my whole life like this, can I? It's been fun, but ... being here with you now, I realize ... I guess I forgot about things like this, like walks, and talking, and ... you know, having conversations that I can remember afterward. Just once, maybe I want to wake up next to him in the morning."

"You want a relationship with him?"

"I don't know. I didn't think so. I mean, I hadn't even thought of it until I said it just now. Anyway, it doesn't matter, because it would be impossible. I have no idea who he is, and I can't exactly go around smelling every Wizard in London. 'Oh, excuse me sir, would you mind terribly if I sniffed your neck? I just want to see if you're the man I've been fucking.'"

"Can you imagine the reactions?" said Ginny, cackling.

Harry's shoulders slumped. "That's another thing. You're fine with the fact that I'm, um, not completely straight, but I don't really want ... not everyone will accept it."

"Let me tell you something I learned this year," said Ginny. "You have to figure out who you are, and what you want, and then be yourself and sod anyone who tries to stop you."

"Really? So who are you, and what do you want?"

"Oh fuck off, I'm still trying to work it out."

They talked for another hour before Ginny Apparated home. Harry continued to walk after she left, feeling light and free. He had told her everything, and she hadn't recoiled in horror; she had understood and been supportive. By the end of their conversation, he had come to the conclusion that he had to stop going to the Broom Closet. He had to be more open about who he was. He had been locked away from the world as a child by the Dursleys; he wasn't going to do it to himself as an adult.

He hadn't told Ginny what he had decided, though. He needed to make sure he could actually follow through with it, first.

Tomorrow was Wednesday. His mystery man had been there every Wednesday so far. Harry would see him again tomorrow for the last time.

-:-:-:-

Harry had no idea how he and the man had found each other night after night. At first, he'd worried about the logistics of finding someone by scent alone. But after a week of succeeding almost every time -- without knowing how -- he stopped worrying, deciding that whatever he was doing was obviously working.

Tonight, though, he didn't want to take any chances. He had to be sure to find him one last time. Harry had brought his invisibility cloak, and was wearing it in the meeting room. He stood next to the entrance, examining each man as he came in.

He knew from his memories that the man he was looking for was thin and wiry. He had short hair -- it was soft, too -- and was probably about his height, or maybe a little taller. His skin was smooth and firm; Harry assumed that meant he was young, or at least not old.

Each time a person walked in who even loosely fit the physical description, Harry would approach him silently from behind, leaning forward and inhaling to try to catch the scent. But so far, he'd had no luck. It had been almost two hours, and the room was getting crowded. He didn't remember any such feelings of frustration before. Was he doing it wrong this time?

Harry turned his attention back to the door as it swung open, but when Draco Malfoy walked through, he rolled his eyes. No need to check; it definitely wasn't him. Harry studied him as he walked by, taking in his short hair and angular body. He stopped a few feet from Harry and began to survey the room, and Harry sighed quietly. He really should be thorough, just to be sure.

Slowly, he walked up behind Draco, inclined his head slightly and sniffed once. Nothing. Just as he thought. Then, Draco turned around; Harry froze, afraid he had been detected. As Draco looked through him, his grey eyes darting back and forth, Harry breathed in. A familiar scent washed over him -- one that haunted his memories and his dreams. Malfoy? The man he thought about night and day was Malfoy?

His shoulders sagged toward the floor. A hope he'd not even known he held was lost. This was not someone he could have a relationship with. It really was time to end this fantasy life. Maybe he should just leave now -- what was the point in staying now that he knew?

Harry was about to step away when Draco's arm shot forward. Harry jumped back, but not quickly enough. Draco's hand grabbed onto the cloak and pulled.

"You shouldn't breathe so loudly if you're going for stealth," said Draco as the cloak slid off of Harry.

"I'm excellent at stealth," said Harry, snatching the cloak back. "I've been professionally trained."

"You might be able to surprise a deaf man. Perhaps. If you were downwind of him."

Harry shook his head, unsure of what to do or what to say. He should insult Draco back, but ... he was _him_. Harry frowned and looked at the floor.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. It's me, you know."

"I know who you are, Malfoy."

"No, I mean ... " Draco made an irritated noise, put a hand on each side of Harry's face, leaned forward, and kissed him. The feel of his lips was achingly familiar. Harry struggled to reconcile the memories with the person even as he felt his body responding to the kiss. After a few seconds, he gave up, and wrapped his arms tightly around Draco, kissing him back. The kiss deepened; their bodies moved closer until they were pressed together from head to toe.

"Merlin, that's hot. Yeah, grab his arse, just like that."

Harry pulled away and looked over to where a middle-aged man was standing, his eyes fixed on them. His purple robes were thrown open, and he had his cock out and was unabashedly stroking it.

"Fuck off," snarled Draco. "We're not on display." He grabbed Harry's hand. "Come on," he said, nodding his head towards the back corridor.

Once they were alone, they shed their clothing and fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Harry moaned at the familiar feel of every part of Draco's body. He wanted to make sure he knew it all completely -- this was his last chance. He pushed Draco onto his back and began a careful exploration, starting at Draco's feet. He kissed each toe, caressed the arch of each foot, and worked up past his ankles to Draco's lower legs, where his shin bones formed hard, sharp ridges. Harry traced the blue veins that stood out against the paleness of Draco's calves. He nuzzled each kneecap and ran his hands up each of Draco's thighs, feeling the taut muscle beneath. Ignoring Draco's cock -- despite its obvious need for attention -- Harry used his fingertips to lightly caress Draco's hips and abdomen, trying to memorize each line and dent and bump. He found a small mole next to Draco's navel, and kissed it softly.

By the time he got to Draco's chest and nipples, Draco was making a soft keening sound. Harry lavished sloppy kisses down Draco's right arm and then his left. When he got to his left wrist, he stopped, picked up Draco's arm, turned it over and examined his skin before bringing Draco's hand to his mouth, sucking on each of the fingers in turn.

"There's something else ... that needs to be sucked," said Draco, breathing heavily. Harry grinned, crawled forward and sucked at Draco's earlobe.

"So sorry," he murmured, "I forgot all about your ears."

Draco put his hand on the top of Harry's head and pushed. "Potter," he said. The desperation in his voice was intoxicating.

Feeling giddy, Harry moved down Draco's body until he was kneeling between Draco's thighs. He leaned over Draco's engorged cock, watching it pulse. He lowered his head and swirled his tongue around the head, feeling the silky smoothness of it and tasting a slightly bitter saltiness. Draco moaned.

Harry licked his lips and moved down the shaft, putting pressure on the underside with his tongue. For a split second, he thought back to that first advertisement he'd seen for the Broom Closet. How far he'd come in the months since. Then, he cleared his mind, and focused on the feel of Draco's cock in his mouth: rigid and smooth and warm and all his. For now. He began to move rhythmically, focusing only on this. Nothing else existed outside of this room.

-:-:-:-

They lay together on the bed for a long time after, spent and exhausted.

"I'm not coming back," whispered Harry. Draco looked over at him.

"Yes you are."

Harry shook his head. "I'm tired of hiding who I am. I'm tired of not knowing who I'm ... who I spend most of my nights with. I'm not going to live this way anymore. I have to be ... out."

"They won't accept it."

"Who?"

"Everyone. You're the hero. The saviour. You can't be a poof."

"Ginny accepted it," said Harry quietly.

Draco's eyebrows went up. "You told her? Isn't she your girlfriend?"

"No. We broke up ... I don't know when. A year ago. Kind of. It's complicated."

"Hmm."

"What? It's the truth. I told her last night, and she said I needed to figure out who I was, and then be that person. ... Do you know how Herbert died?"

"Who the hell is that?"

"The ghost. You know, the one who opens up the meeting room door?"

"Is that his name? Did he kill himself because of it? Herbert? Ugh."

"He was stabbed. By a bunch of thugs who caught him with his lover. His male lover."

"Oh," said Draco.

"His parents set this place up so that would never happen to anyone else. But ... I've been thinking, and ... I don't think it's right. It makes it so easy to hide ... to deny this part of yourself. It's like having a separate life. I'll bet loads of men who come here have wives and children. They're living a lie."

"What the fuck else are they supposed to do? Take up with a man and be disowned? Lose everything?"

"... You think your mother would do that?"

Draco closed his eyes. "When I was six years old, she used to read to me from a book, called _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_."

"Yeah, I've heard of it," said Harry dryly.

"There was one story, about three brothers, and they meet Death and--"

"Right. I know how that one goes."

"The book was illustrated ... the drawings were so detailed, you could see each brother's face clearly. One day I pointed to the youngest brother and said I was going to marry him. There was something about his face that I liked -- I don't even remember what anymore. My mother slapped me and told me never to say anything like that again. 'You are going to marry a pureblood witch and carry on the Malfoy name,' she said. The book disappeared from our library that day."

"Your mother lied to Voldemort to protect you. She risked her life. She loves you. I'm sure she just wants you to be happy."

Draco turned his head and looked at Harry. His eyes were bright with emotion. "No, what my mother wants is what she's always wanted: for her only son to live to pass on the Blood. I'm the only one left."

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Harry thought of something he had noticed earlier. "You weren't Marked."

"What? Of course not. Why would I have been? My parents and I are lucky we weren't all killed by the Dark Lord. He wouldn't have bestowed such an 'honour' on a Malfoy, not after ... not after all that had happened."

Harry shrugged, remembering how haggard the Malfoys had looked the last time he'd seen them all together. "Oh. I just assumed."

"Well, you're not the only one. I spent a year and a half trying to get a job at the Ministry. Fucking wankers. Every time I interviewed with someone, they asked me to show them my left forearm. Every fucking time. And last week, before they would officially hire me, I had to show them again. It's like they're afraid I'm hiding the Dark Lord up my sleeve."

"So ... you got a job? That's good," said Harry.

"No, it's awful. I'm Assistant to the Junior Assistant to the head of the Office of House-Elf Relocation. _House-elves_."

Harry tried his hardest not to laugh, but was unsuccessful.

"Apparently, they've been getting more and more requests for a 're-examination' of the rights of house-elves. Sacks and sacks of letters. So many letters that the Junior Assistant needs an assistant. I'm starting next Monday. Please, just kill me now."

"Why are you doing it, then?" asked Harry. As far as he knew, the Malfoy fortune hadn't been touched, although Narcissa Malfoy had donated generously to the Hogwarts Restoration Fund.

"My mother suggested that if I got a job at the Ministry, I might make some connections with which we might begin to rebuild our name." Draco didn't sound convinced.

"Yeah, actually she's right. You meet all kinds of people in the Ministry. Especially in the lift. Once I even ran into the Minister for Magic in the loo. ... That was weird."

Draco looked thoughtful, but said nothing.

Harry began to imagine what would happen if he and Draco were to meet at the Ministry. Maybe they would get close enough that they would recognize each other. Maybe it would be possible to continue this out in the real world. Draco wasn't so bad. He was rather interesting, actually. He was a real person, with fears and dreams.

"You look like you're plotting something."

"What?" said Harry. "No, I was just thinking."

"Try not to hurt yourself."

"Shut up."

They were both quiet then, content to lay side by side with only their arms touching. Eventually, Harry heard soft, even breathing, and knew that Draco was asleep. His eyes were closed and his face was relaxed and peaceful. Harry watched him, feeling a pang of sadness. He didn't want to go. But he had to -- it was getting late. If he didn't leave now, he might want to stay forever.

He got out of bed and got dressed, trying not to make any noise. He stood with his hand on the doorknob for a few minutes. After one final look back, he opened the door and walked into the corridor. His eyes stung with unshed tears.

"Goodbye," he whispered.

-:-:-:-

Harry moped for weeks. Ron was completely bewildered by his abrupt change in mood, and made daily attempts to guess the reason behind it.

"Did you and my sister get into a fight?"

"Are you worried about the last year of training?"

"You're upset that I'll be moving out next year, aren't you?"

"It has to be Ginny! She won't tell me anything. What did she do?"

"Is it the situation in the Middle East? It sucks, doesn't it?"

"Did someone say something mean about you in the papers? Do I need to have a talk with Rita?"

By mid-August, Ron had gotten desperate.

"Are you pregnant?"

"What?!" said Harry, looking up from his cereal. "Is that even possible?"

"I dunno. You hear stories."

"I'm not pregnant," said Harry.

"OK," said Ron. He sat down at the kitchen table across from Harry. "Hey! I just realized ... you stopped going for walks! Why did you stop going for walks? Merlin, that's it! It's the walks! Harry, you need to start walking at night again."

"No," said Harry firmly.

"But ... but ... the walks. It has to be that."

"I'm not going for any more bloody walks, Ron! I've made my decision and that's final!"

Ron smiled. "You're yelling. That means I've hit on something. I'm a bloody psychological genius. Freud is in awe right now and wishing he were me."

"Freud is dead."

"Doesn't matter. He's still in awe."

There was a popping sound in the living room, and a few seconds later, Hermione walked into the kitchen carrying a large notebook.

"Ready, Ron?"

"Hold on, not yet. I've just realized that Harry's been cranky ever since he stopped going for walks at night. And he yelled at me when I asked about it! Isn't that great?"

Hermione looked at Harry, her face radiating concern. "Harry, I'm sorry that my fiancé is such a buffoon. I'm sure that whenever you're ready to talk about what's bothering you, you'll tell us."

"But, Hermione, it's a clue!"

"Harry is not a puzzle. He is our friend. One does not badger one's friends."

Ron burst out laughing. "Right, like _you_ never badger anyone ... um ... I mean ... you ..." He looked at Harry imploringly. "Help?"

Harry's mouth twitched upward slightly. "I think you're beyond help, mate."

Hermione thwacked the back of Ron's head, but she was smiling. "Come on. We're going to be late. By the way, I'm not badgering you, I'm just ... oh fine, I am badgering you. But you need to be badgered."

"Do badgers badger badgers?" mused Ron, standing and putting his arm around Hermione's waist.

"Probably," said Harry as Hermione rolled her eyes. "Where are you two off to today?"

"The Wizarding wing of the British Museum has a new temporary exhibit on magical contracts. They have some from as long ago as 4000 BC. It should be fascinating. I hope the wait to get in isn't too long."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," said Harry, grinning at the idea of hundreds of witches and wizards queuing up on a Saturday morning to see a bunch of old documents.

"Do you want to join us?"

Harry clenched the spoon in his hand. "I'm bisexual," he said.

"Oh," said Hermione. She pulled out a chair and sat down.

Ron chuckled. "I think they'll still let you in anyway." His eyes brightened. "Wait, is this related to the walks?"

Harry looked at Ron, waiting for him to realize fully what he had said.

"You were walking somewhere!" said Ron. "Somewhere ... bisexual. Harry, mate ... were you getting your leg over? All those nights?"

Harry shrugged. His face flushed. "Um. Yeah, usually."

Ron looked astounded. "That's brilliant! Well done, you. Don't see why you stopped, though."

"Does Ginny know?" asked Hermione, after casting a scathing look at Ron.

"Yeah, I told her, um, the night of my birthday dinner."

"Oh yeah, Ginny," said Ron to himself. "You stopped when she came back. Why didn't I see that?"

"Was she all right?" asked Hermione.

"She was really great. I mean, she was amazingly great about it. That's kind of why I stopped, um, going for walks."

"Because you wanted to get back together?"

"No, because it made me think that ... that maybe I didn't have to hide it anymore."

"You don't have to hide it," said Hermione earnestly. "We'll still love you no matter what. So you can go do ... whatever it is that you were doing ... without worrying."

"No, I can't," said Harry sadly. "There's this place, and you can be whoever you want there, but the catch is you won't remember it afterward ... "

-:-:-:-

By the time their third and final year of Auror training started up again in September, Harry felt mostly like himself again. He still dreamed of the man some nights -- still woke up trembling with longing, still sometimes felt a touch or a kiss in a dizzying rush of memory. But the colour had returned to his world, and he began to see possibilities for the future.

He asked Ginny out to dinner several times, but each time she turned him down, saying that she wouldn't go out with him until he was over his mystery man. "I can't compete with that," she said. Hermione thought that was a wise decision; he and Ron had agreed that they didn't understand women.

"It would be kind of nice," Ron had said once, "dealing with other blokes. We're easy." Then he had gotten a panicked look on his face and rushed to assure Harry that he wasn't saying he actually wanted to deal with other blokes.

By early October, they had fallen back into a regular routine. Their days were spent in field-training exercises -- in the city or out in the country and once in the middle of a forest. It was exhausting, but exhilarating; he finally felt like he was close to becoming a real Auror. At night, they met with friends -- often at a pub -- to rehash their day's adventures, or else they sat in silence in front of the telly eating packets of crisps. Sometimes they had dinner at the Burrow. Harry enjoyed those nights; he and Ginny would go for walks under the stars and talk about all sorts of things.

One Friday afternoon, Harry and the other third-year trainees were taken to a swamp in Scotland to practice offensive spells on the swarms of midges.

"Die you little blighters! Die!" shouted Augustus, slashing wildly with his wand at a particularly large, buzzing cloud in front of him. He screamed as thousands of blue sparks shot at him. "Fucking hell! They're shocking me! Augh!" He fell to his knees in the murky water, twitching.

Auror Williamson ran over to Augustus, flinging repelling charms at the pests. Harry watched as their instructor was also zapped by tiny electric bolts. The swarm rose up and headed towards Harry. "Immobilus!" shouted Harry.

Thousands of insects dropped to the swamp, littering the surface like ash. Harry bent over and gingerly picked one up. "What _are_ these things?" he asked.

Williamson groaned and stood up. His robes were soaked and covered in slimy mud. "Ugh. I don't know, but you should take one back to the Ministry and give it to the Pest Advisory Board. Let them handle it. Not my job."

"OK," said Harry, putting a couple of the immobilized specks in his pocket. "Are you all right, Augustus?"

"I meant now, Potter."

"Oh. Right," said Harry. He looked over at Ron, who was squelching his way over to them, and shrugged before Apparating to the Ministry.

-:-:-:-

"Excuse me," said Harry to the bored looking witch sitting in the office closest to the lift on level four, "which way to the Pest Advisory Board?" She had bleached blonde hair and was wearing too much eye shadow. The sign on her door said, "Office of Misinformation." Harry was about to make a joke about how he shouldn't trust anything she told him, but thought better of it.

"Go straight, and it'll be on your right," she said.

Harry thanked her and continued down the corridor, checking each door on the right as he passed it. Then he came to the end, and turned around. Perhaps she had meant 'left'.

He went back the way he came, this time checking doors on the other side. When he found himself back near the lift, he frowned. Had he missed it?

He peeked into the bored woman's office; she had her feet up on her desk and was filing her toenails. Harry grimaced and knocked on the door frame. She looked up.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, but I couldn't find it. The Pest Advisory Board? Am I on the wrong level?"

"It's under the Beast Division," she said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. "On your right, just down the corridor."

The man in the Pest Advisory Board office informed him that the board only met once per month. "But you can fill out a form, and they will look into your matter at the next meeting," he said, handing Harry a piece of parchment three feet long.

"Um. Actually I have a specimen I need to drop off. You see, I'm in Auror training, and we got attacked by--"

"A specimen?" The man looked alarmed. "Here?"

"It's just a bug," said Harry, reaching for his pocket.

"No! Don't! Um. Are you sure it's not a Being?"

"What? It's a gnat. Well, it does shoot little bolts of lightning, but it's definitely an insect of some kind. I think."

The man shook his head emphatically. "All unknown creatures must be examined by the Being division first."

"But can't I just--"

"Out!" the man shrieked, brandishing his wand at Harry.

The door marked "Being Division" opened to reveal a dark, quiet space. Several other doors led off the main room.

"Hello?" Harry called. Maybe everyone had gone home for the day. It was nearly four o'clock on a Friday, after all. Two of the doors opened nearly simultaneously: one in front of him and one to his left. An elderly witch emerged from the one in front of him. From the corner of his left eye, he saw a flash of white.

"Can I help you, young man?" she said as the door to his left slammed shut again.

"I--" began Harry, but he couldn't finish his sentence, because he had completely forgotten it. That scent. He looked to his left. The waft of air from the closing door had smelled exactly like ... could it be him?

"Who works in that office?" he asked, pointing. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

The woman frowned. "That's the Office of House-Elf Relocation," she said. "There are several people who work in there. Of course it used to be Newt's office, before he--"

"Ah, thank you, yes," said Harry. "That's what I was looking for. House-elves. I need to, uh, relocate some."

He smiled and waved at the woman until she retreated back into her office, muttering to herself. Harry thought he heard the phrase, "young people these days."

Once he was alone again, he took a few deep breaths, walked to the left door, put his hand on the doorknob, and turned it. As the door swung open, his smile grew. He scarcely dared to hope but ... how could it not be him?

Inside the small room, Draco Malfoy was arguing with a fat man in an argyle sweater.

Harry's smile collapsed. What the hell?

"Potter. What can the Office of House-Elf Relocation do for you?" said Draco. His eyes were angry but his mouth was curved up in the simulation of a smile. "Oh, where are my manners? Mr Haynes, meet Harry Potter. Potter, meet my boss, Mr Damon Haynes."

"Potter? Harry Potter?" Damon narrowed his eyes. "That's not him. There's no scar. You think I'm an idiot, don't you, Malfoy?"

"You hired me," said Draco evenly.

"Exactly," said Damon. "Don't you forget that." He turned towards Harry. "What are you doing tracking mud into my office?" Harry was reminded strongly of his Uncle Vernon.

Harry looked down at his shoes, which were still covered in muck from the swamp. He took a deep breath. The scent was still here, albeit mingled with other, less pleasant aromas. He looked at the two men in the room and reached a surprising conclusion. "Actually, I ... I'm here to talk to Malfoy about something. In private."

"Draco has work to do," Damon said with a sneer. "Come back later."

Harry narrowed his eyes, drew his wand and dissipated the Glamour on his scar. Damon gasped.

"Mr Potter," he said, his entire demeanour changing, "it's an honour to meet you. If there's anything I can do for you, please--"

"You can leave," said Harry. "I need to talk to Draco."

Damon eyed Draco warily and sidled out of the room; Draco crossed his arms and smiled triumphantly at him as he passed by. Once the door closed, he dropped his arms and the smile.

"I'll bet you do that all the time, don't you? Just flash the famous scar and get your way."

"Right, that's exactly why I keep it hidden, so I can reveal it dramatically when I need to get people to leave their offices."

Draco scowled. "Why are you here?" His face was guarded and sullen.

"I need to smell you," said Harry. He moved closer, and something flashed in Draco's eyes, just for a second -- an intensity of expression that made Harry's breath catch. But it was only for a moment. Draco took a step back.

"I'd rather you didn't." He took another step back.

"I need to know if it's you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I would like you to leave." Draco backed all the way against the wall, his face flushing pink. Harry approached him anyway, keeping his attention fixed on the pale skin of Draco's neck. He grabbed him by the shoulders and Draco shuddered and closed his eyes. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Harry leaned forward, inhaling deeply.

"It _is_ you," said Harry.

"No," whispered Draco. "You'll ruin everything."

"I recognize the way you smell."

Draco shook his head. "You must have me confused with someone else." His voice was louder, stronger now.

"I don't. It's very distinct."

"Dragon claw soap. Anyone who's been to a certain small village in Romania could have purchased some."

"If I'm wrong, you can hex me," said Harry, touching his forehead to Draco's. His mouth was so close. "But if I'm right ..." He kissed Draco gently; his lips were dry but soft. Draco didn't respond. Harry kissed him again. "I missed you," he murmured.

It happened very quickly. One second, he was holding Draco's shoulders and trying to kiss him for a third time, and the next, his back was against the wall and Draco was pushed against him, glowering. Something hard was poking Harry's stomach.

Harry grinned. "Is that your wand, Malfoy, or are you just happy to see me?"

"It's my wand," said Draco, moving it to press against Harry's temple.

"Oh."

"You said I could hex you if you were wrong."

"I wasn't wrong. It's been months since I was there, but I still remember it. I still think about you all the time. Well, I didn't know it was you ... um ... wow, that is kind of weird." Harry's head began to feel clearer, and he looked at Draco in horror, realizing what this meant. He had been mooning over _Draco Malfoy_. He'd even half convinced himself that he was in love with him. What a ridiculous idea.

"Potter. What do you want from me?"

"I don't know," said Harry slowly. "I got caught up in the memories, I didn't have a plan or anything ... I was just looking for someone to tell me that a gnat isn't a Being, and then that scent ... dragon soap?"

"Dragon claw. A gnat is not a being. You can leave now." Draco stepped away and lowered his wand.

Nothing seemed real -- the floor, the walls, the man standing in front of him wearing the wrong face. Harry walked dazedly to the door. "God. It _was_ you, wasn't it?"

Draco only looked at him, his face unreadable.

-:-:-:-

Somehow, Harry found his way back to his flat. He must have used the Floo, because he was standing in his living room with the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. He stumbled over to the couch and sat down, holding his head in his hands and waiting for the world to make sense.

The sun had nearly set by the time he sat up again. How could this have happened? What had he been thinking? He found it impossible to believe that each time he had gone to the Broom Closet and found that the man was Draco Malfoy, he had stayed, and ... God, how many times had he fucked him? How many nights had they spent in each other's arms, exploring each other's bodies? Even though he had forgotten afterward, he had known who it was while it happened. How was that possible?

Harry closed his eyes and ran his finger along his lips, remembering the feel of Draco's mouth under his. He thought of the warmth of his body and the cool grey depth of his eyes and realized that he was half-hard.

That, apparently, was how it had happened. He was attracted to him. Harry began to laugh. It was such a simple explanation, and yet it made complete sense.

So what was he going to do about it?

A few minutes later, he got up and jogged into the kitchen, scrawling a hasty note on the back of an envelope and sticking it to the fridge door before Apparating directly away.

_Ron, _

Gone for a walk. Be back later.

\- H.

-:-:-:-

It was still early evening, but it was a Friday, so the meeting room was fairly crowded. Harry stood on a barstool and looked over the sea of heads, trying to find one that was white-blond.

Herbert had been delighted to see him after so many months away, but once Harry had told him why he was there ("I know who he is. I have to find him."), Herbert had shaken his head sadly. "I wish you well, Harry, but I fear the world isn't yet ready for us."

"I don't care if they're ready. They'll have to deal with me anyway."

Harry went over the crowd one more time. He'd been so certain that Draco would be here. But he wasn't.

Sighing, he jumped to the floor. A few people nearby gave him curious looks, but most went on with whatever they had been doing.

"Has anybody seen a blond bloke -- really blond, about my height? Thin, pale? Thinks he's better than everyone else?"

"There was a blond guy here before. I don't know where he went. Maybe a back room," said a tall, bald man, pointing to the door in the corner.

"Thanks," said Harry.

The back corridor was quiet, and the carpet was thick under his feet. Most of the rooms had glowing red spots in their centres. Harry started with the closest door, opening it, glancing at the occupants and, after determining none of them were Draco, closing it again. He had gone through five doors -- and been threatened once and propositioned three times -- when he opened the sixth door and saw a flash of blond. The men on the bed looked up in surprise.

It wasn't Draco.

He wasn't in any of the other rooms either.

"Bugger," muttered Harry. Where was he? There was just one other place to look, he thought, leaving the Broom Closet without a backward glance.

-:-:-:-

Ron still wasn't home when Harry returned to their flat. But beneath his own note, Harry found another, barely legible one, saying, "Cheers, mate! I'm at Herm's."

Grinning, Harry added, "Still out walking, don't wait up," and then went over to the fireplace. He had no idea if this would work, but it was worth a try. He lit a small fire in the alcove and threw in a pinch of Floo powder. "Malfoy Manor," he said, stepping into the flames.

He emerged, coughing, in a high-ceilinged room with elaborate designs worked in gold around the edges. Apparently the Malfoy mansion was connected to the Floo Network. Maybe that wasn't so surprising, considering that Draco worked at the Ministry now. A few seconds later, a house-elf appeared, its large eyes narrowing at the sight of him.

"Who is coming to the Malfoy home without an invitation?" it squeaked.

"Um. Sorry. I'm ... Harry Potter. I'm here to see, uh, Draco. Is he home?"

"Harry Potter. Yes. I is hearing about you from my Mistress. Please be following me."

Harry trailed after the elf, and was surprised to find that the room opened out to a small, manicured garden. A fountain burbled softly in the middle. He looked back and saw that he had come from a small cottage, the walls covered with ivy. In front of them, the side of a large mansion was visible over the tops of a row of yews.

"They have a separate building for their Floo?"

"Of course," said the house-elf. "The public Floo. That is only proper."

A white peacock strutted by, its tail fully spread. Harry shook his head -- he hadn't even known peacocks came in that colour -- and followed the elf along a stone path around to the front of the house. The door was open, and Narcissa Malfoy was standing in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her. She was wearing pale blue robes, decorated with small pearly-white beads -- probably real pearls.

"Harry," she said, smiling tightly, "what a pleasure to see you. Please do come in. I understand that you're here to see my son?" Her expression was completely unreadable to Harry.

"Hello, Mrs Malfoy," said Harry. Seeing her brought back a flood of memories -- memories of a terrible day. "I am. Um, is he here?"

"Of course. We were just sitting down to dinner. Would you care to join us?"

Harry stomach growled. "Actually, I am kind of hungry. I'd love to, thanks."

Draco had gone very still and quiet when Harry walked into the dining room and sat down across from him. For the first twenty minutes of the meal, he was completely silent and looked only at his plate. In between bites of a delicious lamb stew, Harry answered Mrs Malfoy's myriad questions about Auror training, his life in London, and the lives of his friends and former classmates.

"Draco has been working at the Ministry," said Mrs Malfoy after Harry finished describing what he knew of Ron and Hermione's wedding plans.

"I know ... well, I didn't know until today. We ran into each other, um, near his office. That's kind of why I'm here."

Mrs Malfoy looked over at Draco. "You didn't tell me!" she said. "You're making _friends_; that's excellent."

"Mother ... please," said Draco, slouching down in his chair.

"You're far too old to still be embarrassed by your mother," she said, raising an eyebrow at him. "Harry, is there a special young lady in your life? You must be thinking of settling down and starting a family of your own soon."

"Er, no." Harry glanced over at Draco, who was staring fixedly at his water glass. "Actually, I'm not quite sure about that. You see," he said, looking Mrs Malfoy directly in the eye, "I've recently realized that I'm attracted to men as well as women. So the field is a little more open, if you will."

Draco's water glass burst into shards. A house-elf swooped over to gather the pieces.

"Oh. I see," said Mrs Malfoy. "Well, that's ... certainly interesting." She clasped her hands in front of her. "It's time for pudding. Harry, I hope you enjoy pomegranate soufflé."

After the meal was over, they moved to the sitting room. Harry sat in a deep arm chair, enjoying the heat emanating from the hearth. He was pleasantly full and fighting the urge to recline back in his chair; it seemed like it would be a mistake to relax, given the company. Mrs Malfoy and Draco were sitting on a divan across from Harry's chair. She was sitting up very straight, in marked contrast to her son.

Harry cast about for something to say. "Um. You have a lovely home."

"Thank you," said Mrs Malfoy, "that is kind of you to say. What are your intentions toward my son?" At her question, Draco changed his posture to mirror his mother's. His eyes were wide with alarm.

"I'm not sure I understand your--"

"Don't be coy with me, Harry. I know my son shares your ... proclivities. I can only assume that's why you are here." Her mouth was drawn in on itself, and her hands were locked together so tightly that her knuckles were white.

"Oh. Well," said Harry, looking at Draco, who was staring at his mother, his mouth agape. What Harry really wanted was to fuck him until he lost consciousness from the pleasure, but that hardly seemed like something to say to someone's mother. "I guess I would maybe like to take him out to dinner?"

"I see. And why, precisely, do you think I would let you?"

"I think the better question is why wouldn't you let me?"

Mrs Malfoy regarded him coolly.

"Let me guess," said Harry. "It's because I'm not a pureblood, right?"

"Not quite," said Mrs Malfoy. "It's because he's a Malfoy."

"Right. Associating with me would sully the name." Harry looked over at Draco, wondering if he felt the same way. Draco was still scrutinizing his mother, but what he was trying to read in her face was a mystery.

Mrs Malfoy pursed her lips. "Your point is well made," she said. Harry hadn't even realized he'd made a point. "I will allow you to date my son."

"Excuse me?" said Draco. "I never said I -- why are you talking about me as though I'm not here? Who said I have any interest in him?"

"Don't be absurd, Draco. You've been smitten with him for ages. He's all you used to talk about."

Harry smirked as Draco's face turned bright pink.

"Mother, I talked about wanting to beat him, not _date_ him. I'm not like that! I am a Malfoy. I will carry on the family name."

"Of course you will," she said. "I never doubted that. But there are many ways in which you can--" She looked over at Harry, who was following the conversation with great interest. "We shouldn't be discussing these things in front of our guest." She got to her feet. "I'll leave you two to talk. Harry, it was a delight to have you over for dinner. I am sure I will have the pleasure yet again in the future."

She left the room before Harry could respond.

-:-:-:-

They sat for a few minutes, the crackle of burning logs the only sound in the room. Draco appeared to be lost in thought, his eyes gazing without focus on the ornate Persian carpet in front of him. Harry got up from his chair and went to sit next to Draco, close enough so their thighs touched. Draco didn't pull away from the contact.

"She knows. She's always known. And she didn't disown me," said Draco quietly.

"Why would she do that?"

Draco waved his hand. "You wouldn't understand. You're a half-blood orphan."

"Right," said Harry angrily. "And you're a pureblood git."

"What?" Draco rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean that as an insult. It's just ... you _don't_ understand; you couldn't."

Harry shrugged, feeling utterly out of place, then sighed. "What the fuck are we doing?"

"I don't know -- you're the one who's stalking me."

"I wasn't-- You could have stopped going! ... But I guess you didn't know it was me."

"I meant today. First my office, then my home ..."

"I told you, I wasn't there to find you; I didn't even know you were working at the Ministry. I had these insects that I ... never mind, it doesn't matter."

Draco glanced over at Harry, then back at the carpet. "I knew it was you."

"What do you mean?"

"Since late May. I figured it out after a few times. You trigger very specific ... feelings. It was obvious who you were once I thought it through."

Harry sat back. He had known all along? And he had still come back, still sought him out? "What kind of feelings?"

"I don't think I'm going to tell you that."

"Oh." Harry smiled softly to himself. "So, did you look for me? I mean ... is that how we found each other so often?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know -- I don't really remember."

Harry wasn't sure he believed him. It didn't matter. Draco had known all those months, and had still wanted him. It was almost too much to process. He felt himself starting to get hard.

"Er, do you want to go to my flat?"

"Your flat? Wouldn't Weasley hex me on sight? No, I suppose he'd punch me; physical violence is more his style."

"Maybe, but he might still be at Hermione's. Although, her parents don't let him spend the night there so he will be back at some point."

"How progressive of them."

"I wouldn't let him punch you, anyway. But, we could, um, watch telly or something if you'd rather not, um ..."

Draco closed his eyes and smiled slightly. "I'd rather have your cock in me."

Harry looked behind him to make sure Mrs Malfoy wasn't lurking in the doorway; the coast appeared to be clear. He got up and straddled Draco's lap, his knees sinking into the cushions. Just as Harry leaned down to kiss him, Draco opened his eyes. He met Harry's lips with his mouth open, curling their tongues together. He grabbed Harry's arse and pulled him closer, groaning. The kiss grew more intense; their hands roamed each other's bodies, trying to get under what suddenly seemed like hundreds of layers of clothing.

"Can we Apparate from here?" mumbled Harry against Draco's chin, panting.

"Yes," replied Draco, drawing out the 's' sound as Harry bit gently at his throat.

Harry removed himself from Draco's lap, hating to break contact but forcing himself to think of the even more intimate contact to come. "We can do side-along. I think I can get us right into my bedroom," he said, thinking at that moment that nothing could be more worth the risk of splinching.

Draco stood as well, pushing at his groin, no doubt to try to get his erection into a more comfortable position. He aligned his body next to Harry's, wrapping his arms around him. "Good, we can avoid your flatmate."

"Yeah. We'll deal with him tomorrow," said Harry. He twisted, holding tightly onto Draco, and was pleased to see his bedroom appear around them and to feel that all immediately necessary body parts were intact and functional.

They fell into bed, pulling off their clothes as fast as possible, each touch burning like fire.

-:-:-:-

In the morning, Harry woke with the sun on his face and a familiar scent in the air. He breathed in deeply, hoping last night hadn't all been a dream.

He rolled over and saw Draco sleeping beside him with his lips parted slightly and his hair sticking in all directions. Harry smiled and kissed him; Draco murmured something indistinct and buried his head under a pillow.

Harry settled down into the bed and closed his eyes. Maybe he would sleep a little longer.

-:- END -:-


End file.
